


In The Wolf's Den

by threehoundsonyellowfield



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Arranged Marriage, Bittersweet, F/M, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Forced Marriage, Internal Conflict, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, POV Minor Character, Please Read Author's Disclaimer in Chapter 1, Rare Pairings, Read at Your Own Risk, Robb Stark is King in the North, Romance With Plot, Romantic Angst, Self-Denial, Slow Burn, Tragic Hero, War of the Five Kings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2020-03-29 17:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 98,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threehoundsonyellowfield/pseuds/threehoundsonyellowfield
Summary: A love story in the middle of the war, between two young people who shouldn't fall in love; Princess Myrcella Baratheon was trying to escape from her betrothal to the Dorne Prince when she recklessly rides to Casterly Rock. However, she lost her way and caught between the War of The Five Kings, and into the arms of the King in The North.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream about Robb Stark and I am writing this fic based on the dream.
> 
> *DISCLAIMER! please read*  
> -westeros version of stockholm syndrome;  
> -a romeo and juliet theme;  
> -all women pov, excluding the epilogue;  
> -sorry no daenerys, no theon, and no night king;  
> -at the start of this story, Myrcella is 14 (underage in our society but not underage in this medieval setting) Robb is 17;  
> -english is not my native tongue, so please excuse any *weird* grammatical errors :(  
> \- this author is also a plotter;  
> -please refer to WARNINGS and TAGS before proceeding;  
> -CONTAIN ABUSE AND NON-CON, so PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION !! Author will not post TW before the start of the chapter!
> 
> THANK YOU ! :)

The sun almost completely sank when she slipped down from her mare; the red, orange and purple tinge in the sky hurt her eyes. She didn’t know how long she hasn’t slept. Even if she could close her eyes, the slightest sound would make her jerk in surprise and choose to climb the mare and spurred away. Now the mare is angry and refuses to move.

“If I were you, I’d be angry at me too,” she sighed, trying to caress its mane but the mare trotted away to graze.

Her gown grew dirtier each passing day and she never felt so filthy in her whole life. She never passed a day without a bath and look at her now; her golden hair is tangled and sticks to her sweaty scalp, adorned with leaves and twigs. The stockings under her gown were torn few days ago but she still uses it for keeping her legs warm at night. Her skin started to feel hot and flaking.

Five days had passed until the mare refused to go further and stopped abruptly by the bank of the river filled with brown reddish mud. She dragged her sore feet to the river, pulled off the stockings and dipped her legs into the cold water that instantly feels like balm on her dry broken skin. She washed her face, her neck and even dipped her hair to at least shed some dirt away. She was tempted to strip out of her dirty gown and cloak but being alone in the woods at dusk worried her, so she contented herself at least her face and half of her hair were out of dust. She could ease her thirst, too, if she could make a fire and boil the water.

The provisions she stole from Ser Arys had ran dry two days ago, and she had not eaten anything save for berries and other fruits she found on the forest floor. Her stomach rumbled now, and for the third time in that afternoon she questioned herself of her reckless, impulsive plan to go to Casterly Rock.

They were shipping her off to faraway land, Dorne, they say, to marry a man she never got to meet. Her mother had fiercely fought for her to stay in King’s Landing, even going so far to threatening Tyrion Lannister, her uncle, whom she truthfully fond of.

“I am the Queen, my only daughter stays with me, or I’ll have your head!” her mother had said.

“And when Stannis and his armies landed on our shore, what will you do then? Let them take your children?” Tyrion replied, “They’d kill Joffrey and Tommen, a quick death for sure, but Myrcella? They’d rape her first before they cut her throat.” She had shuddered with dread by her uncle’s honest reply.

“So you seal my daughter— _my only daughter_ —in a crate and ship her away?” Cersei breathed venom.

“We need Dorne to supply soldiers, provisions, or at least to make sure them not declaring to our enemies. Myrcella will be safer in Dorne, away from the war your _kingly_ son started.” Tyrion’s voice soften at her sobs and turned to her, taking her hand in his. “Believe me, Myrcella, I myself hate doing this.” he looked pained as she stared into his mismatched eyes.

She could only nod back then.

She might be young, just passed her fourteenth name day and not yet flowered to her mother’s delight, but she understands war enough to realize the reasoning in Tyrion’s plan. As a Lady—a _Princess_ , nonetheless—she was also expected to marry and winning alliances for her brother to win the War of The Five Kings.

She is not closed to Joffrey ever since she could remember. Joffrey is cruel, deep down she knew it. The War of the Five Kings started not long after her father’s death and the beheading of his Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, by her brother for treason. A foolish decision whispered by resentful peasants and highborns alike since thousands of people died, and thousands more starve because the war it kickstarted.

The war is a three-way battle for the Iron Throne; fought between Joffrey who now King of the Seven Kingdoms and their father’s younger brothers Stannis and Renly Baratheon. Alongside there are also two independence movements; the North and the Iron Islands, each naming their own Lords as Kings.

“What if that Dorne prince turns out like Robert?” Cersei demanded. “What then?”

“We will send a Kingsguard with her.” the imp walked on his stunted legs towards the door. “If the city falls when the enemies come, at least she’d be safe there.”

And so they sent her away, choosing ser Arys Oakheart as her escort. Her imp uncle had devised a clever plan; sailed her to Dorne and made a sent-away ceremony for the whole King’s Landing to see her off abroad the royal vessel. Only when she settled in her cabin, ser Arys informed her than she’d be snucked ashore again at midnight to Duskendale, circling the capital through the Kingsroad and passed the Roseroad before finally reach Dorne by horse.

Ser Arys had her dressed plainly, stripped from all her highborn attributes and advised her to conceal her face and hair in the hood of her cloak.

“Is my brother going to win the war?” she asked the kingsguard then, as they trotted down the road.

“He might be, Princess.” Ser Arys answered. “For the good of the realm, he must.”

“If war comes, won’t I and Tommen be safe in Casterly Rock?” she was tempted at the idea; Casterly Rock is way much better than being in Dorne. Last time she heard, uncle Jaime was sent there to gather supporters for Joffrey to defend his throne. Uncle Jaime is always kind to her, he would not turn her away if she show up.

“Dorne is the safest place right now, Princess. This war is already knocking on our door.”

 _A war started by my cruel brother,_ she choke back her anger. _And I was among those who paid the price._

“Are you not happy with the imp’s plan, Princess?” Ser Arys had asked her.

 _Am I not?_ she asked herself then, and now. For years she heard her mother’s fury for being a broodmare, even her cries at night if her mother thought no one heard. Despite what people whispered about Cersei Lannister, she knew how fiercely her mother loved her children. Even though she appreciated uncle Tyrion’s goodwill and understand the need to secure alliances for his brother’s war, she couldn’t help but reminded on how bitter her mother grew in the arranged marriage. Septa Eglantine had taught her to be dutiful, as women of noble birth are expected to marry for alliances, but…

_I will never marry for love._

The sole reason she hadn’t betrothed to anyone before this Dorne Prince was because Cersei had wrestled and fiercely fought every marriage proposals from other Houses. Her not being flowered become the main excuse her mother used. Now, even her mother had to yield to the idea of marrying her off to this foreign man.

 _And here I am,_ she thought sadly as she walked to collect leaves and bark, anything dry enough to start fire. Only once did she successfully make a fire but the process made her palms bleed. Now they are still sore but she is too weak and unable to pass the night without any warmth.

Yesterday night she thought she saw yellow eyes peering at her through the trees. It might just her imagination, starving and sleepless, that her mind gave in to imagination. But she is terrified nonetheless.

As soon as the sun sets the forest became filled with sound; owls hooted and crickets creaked with the sound of river. She shivered and knelt in front of a tinder nest she made, praying the Gods are good to grant her fire again tonight. She just rolled the spindle between her hands when it tore her blistered skin, making it bleed again and she screamed in pain. The thought of giving up scares her; remembering a set of yellow eyes watching her last night it best if she has fire nearby.

“Please, please, I need to make fire…” she started to cry, biting her lips to resist the pain when she maintaining pressure as the spindle rolled between her hands.

After several minutes of trying she accepted her defeat; no fire tonight, no food and no clean water to drink. Either she died of starvation or killed by wild animals. Myrcella sobbed silently, soaking her torn hands in the cold river water.

 _How foolish I was to run from ser Arys. Maybe if I accept my fate and go to Dorne, I would not ended up like this,_ she thought. _It is too late now._

She had ridden for days but she couldn’t find the right direction to Casterly Rock. She realized she had been circling the same area and now she was too weak to continue her journey. Along the way there were no other travelers, and all the inns were either burned to the ground or abandoned. It was her hunger that drove her into the forest, seeking fruits to eat, and now she was lost in it.

The mare shifted anxiously.

Myrcella lay on the ground by the river, her muscles ache and she closed her eyes.

She thought of her mother, pretty and grand and how people used to compliment her like the younger version of her mother—she thought of her sweet younger brother Tommen, barely ten but quirky and sweet… the bush rustled from the wind. She could hear the mare whined nearby but she doesn’t care anymore.

“You can go,” she said softly, her eyes too heavy to open. “I am sorry I dragged you this way…”

The mare whined louder.

She opened her eyes to see the bushes front of her whistled by the chilly wind. A pair of yellow eyes stared back at her from behind the shadows of the trees, illuminated by the moonlight. She was too weak to move, laying motionless by the river. The mare let out a shriek and trotted away, leaving her, as the eyes coming out slowly from the shadows of the trees.

 _A wolf,_ she realized.

The beast sniffed the air and looked back at her, and her last thought was how unusually big the wolf was, not that she saw wolves everyday.

She closed her eyes again giving in to the inevitable.


	2. Chapter 2

Her body feels light.

Somehow she no longer feel the cold of the night or how hard the ground was beneath her.

 _Maybe I was dead,_ she thought.

Something soft poked her cheek and neck—she remembered the yellow eyed beast coming from the trees. Its gray fur bristled with the wind, the extraordinary sharp teeth bare at her, ready to attack.

_The wolves came to feast on me… but why I didn’t feel pain at all?_

Instead she recalled it was no longer cold, like she was enveloped in a pile of feathers.

The nudging continued as in purpose. She groaned, trying to move her legs.

“She is alive, my lord.”

_I am alive?_

“Can you hear me? Can you stand up, girl?”

“Wolf…” she managed to say, her voice was hoarse and sounded like someone else’s. The sun hurt her eyes and she groaned, shutting her eyes again. Several men stood before her, the one who spoke to her was on his knees and held out a bag of water.

“Yes, yes, wolves roamed this area, girl. You are lucky not to be eaten alive last night, sleeping under the sky with no fire.”

“You are only frightening the girl, Locke,” a man behind him sneered.

She blinked few times to adjust her eyes to the sunlight. Each of the men surrounding her wearing thick armor and coats made of furs. Their faces pious and stern, some looked at her suspiciously. She took the waterbag from the man and gulped the water down greedily, thankful for the cool liquid on her sore throat.

“Are you hurt, girl? Why are you alone in the woods in this dire time?” the man on a horse asked, not unkindly.

“No, my lord. I—I am lost, my lord.”

“Where are you heading?”

She couldn’t say Casterly Rock, so she instead uttered, “King’s Landing, my lord.”

The men looked at each other unseasily but the man on the horse not even looked surprised.

“You are highborn, dressed like a wench,” he said softly as if to himself. “What is your name, girl?”

“J—Jayne Stone, if it pleases my lord.”

The man’s strange eyes pierced into hers, strangely paler than stone but darker than milk. She has never saw any eyes like those. She shuddered beneath his cold stare.

“Jayne,” the weird-eyed man spoke softly but she could hear every words easily. “A bastard from the Vale, so far away from home, lost in the cold Red Fork. Are you alone, Jayne?”

“No, my lord, I was with my father…” she swallowed hard, worried that the men would catch her lie. They do look at her warily. “Thank you, my lord, for… for the water. I should continue my journey…”

He looked thoughtful. He wears rich fur and on his cloak there was a sigil; a red man hanging upside-down on a white X-shaped cross on black background. _I knew that sigil,_ she thought, wrecking her already exhausted mind to recalled Grand-Maester Pycelle’s lessons.  Before the men could utter a word she bowed and trying to walked away. Locke snatched her arm, jerking her to stop on her track. She whimpered at the strength of the older man’s hand.

“My lord is not done with you, girl.” Locke smirked.

“What is your father’s name?” the weird-eyed man asked.

When she cannot answered fast enough, Locke’s arms grew tighter on hers.

“Is this your father, Jayne?” the weird-eyed man on the horse threw a ball at her and she blinked in confusion as the ball rolled on the muddy river banks, missing her feet by the inch. The ball had light brown fur—she thought for a moment before realizations dawns on her.

_It is not a ball._

His comely face now a ruin, missing most of his skin. She saw the red flesh and muscles and even in such grotesque ruin she knew who it was. She didn’t remember if she scream, of just black out where she stood, she only remembered how unforgiving Locke’s arms seized her and the cold chuckle from the weird-eyed man.

“Take her.” he ordered.

The next thing she remembered was chains on her hands, on her feet, and they even gagged her. She was put on a brown horse with Locke.

“In my family we say: _a naked man has few secrets, a flayed man, none._ ” she heard the weird-eyed man spoke to her. “Your _father,_ if he really was your father, was a strong man. We flayed most of his face to his shoulder but he didn’t break. We have to chop his head instead. But it was fun while it lasted. Now,” he gazed at her for a moment, judging silently. “I’ll take you and let’s see if you really are what you told. Though I highly doubt so.”

They rode hard without stopping; Locke gripped her waist so hard he might have bruised her. Sometimes his hairy hands sneaked up to her breasts and kneading softly before roughly pulling his hands again. She wanted to vomit every time she felt Locke’s hands on her breasts, but there was nothing she could heaved because her stomach was empty. The chains they put on her rattled noisily, drowning out every sobs she couldn’t muffled.

On the evening they finally came into a castle and rode through its sluice gate. The castle stood proudly like an island surrounded by rivers, its wall rise so high from the waters and its towers command opposites shores. She recognized the castle right away: _Riverrun._

Once inside they unhorsed and Locke pulled her arm and half dragged her into the great hall where more men-at-arms gathered. The castle’s great hall was decorated and furnished richly with red and blue. Tapestries and shields and banners decorated the walls; she saw Tully’s silver trout and Stark’s grey wolf hanging majestically behind high chairs placed in the center of the dais. A man with fiery red beard was sitting on one of the chairs, listening to a Maester.

“Lord Bolton.” The red bearded-man looked up and acknowledges the weird-eyed man as they rolling into the hall.

“Lord Tully.” the weird-eyed man nodded.

“It is past time to have you back, my lord. My nephew the King is expecting you.”

“Ah, yes. I will meet him in his solar, then.”

“No need, my lord.” another voice came from behind the dais. “I saw you riding into the castle.”

All the men in the great hall bowed deep as a young man appeared from the upper end of the hall located beyond the dais.

The King in The North’s appearance favors his Tully side with stocky build, bright blue eyes and thick red-brown hair. His eyebrows furrowed as in deep thought, making his young handsome face looked troubled. A gray-haired wolf with golden yellow eyes followed him and settled near his feet as the young King took his seat next to Edmure Tully. His blue eyes wandered to the weird-eyed man.

“Did you find the girl, Lord Bolton?” he asked the weird-eyed man.

“Girl? What girl?” Edmure Tully couldn’t conceal his confusion.

The King ignored him.

“We did find a girl, Your Grace.” the weird-eyed man regarded as Lord Bolton nodded and signaled Locke to bring her upfront. The gag was removed from her mouth, but not the chains on her feet and her hands. She was shoved in front of Lord Edmure Tully, who glared at her, and the young king.

“Is this the right girl?”

Both the King in the North and his giant wolf looked at her and she recognized his wolf as the beast that came to her last night. _Are they expecting her? Are they going to kill her like they killed ser Arys?_ she thought wildly, confusion and fear clasped her heart.

The King nodded, “Thank you, I can always rely on you, Lord Bolton. Is there any entourage?”

“It was, Your Grace. But they didn’t travel with the girl. It seemed that… they were _looking_ for the girl, too.”

“Any prisoners?”

Lord Bolton shifted on his feet. “No, Your Grace. We… _took care_ of them.”

 _They chopped ser Arys’s head, murderer!_ she wanted to scream.

“My father outlawed flaying in the North.” the King in the North said, staring coldly to his bannermen.

“We are not in the North, Your Grace. And we did pull some informations.”

“Such as?”

The weird-eyed man gazed at her before looking back to his King.

“Did you know who is this girl when you sent us to find her?” Lord Bolton asked.

“It is none of your concern, my lord.”

Lord Bolton bowed.

“And the informations?” the King asked impatiently.

“Well…” Lord Bolton chose his words carefully, “Though the leader died not disclosing anything important, but one of the guards travelling with him did say some things. Princess Myrcella Baratheon was travelling to Dorne for a betrothal. On their second night on the road, the Princess managed to escaped her entourage. The guard and his leader thought she might try to go to Casterly Rock.”

The King’s eyes met hers and she looked away.

“You are saying that this wench is Princess Myrcella Baratheon?” Edmure Tully raised his eyebrow. “How can we sure this is Myrcella Baratheon?”

“She is, I assure you, Uncle.” the King said, never waived his eyesight off her. “We’ve met in Winterfell, when King Robert came to ask my father to become his Hand.”

All eyes in the great hall now fell on her; anger, distrust, disgusted… but mostly anger. She is half Lannister anyway, the House that is said to have beheaded the Stark patriarch, took his daughters hostage and might try to kill their crippled sibling.

_There is no love for Lannisters here, she might ended up like ser Arys; flayed and beheaded and given to wolves._

“Good plan I’d say,” Lord Bolton continued, “to dressed her like a wench and travel without any banners, like common folks. Not sailing to Dorne because Stannis’s fleet might intercept the royal vessel… The flaw was the girl has her own will, and mid-journey ran to Casterly Rock.”

“Then no need to chained her, she’s just a girl and _a Princess,_ my lord.” the King stared coldly at Lord Bolton.

She thought she saw anger too on his eyes but she does not dare to interpret further. Her legs felt weak standing under the gaze of the men in the room. Her hands ached under the iron chains, and the wound in her palms throbbed painfully. If they keep talking like that she’d succumbed to darkness once again. A man (she gave silent thankful prayer it was not Locke) came forward to remove the chains and shackle from her wrists and ankles.

“Just precautions, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Lord Bolton. That’d be all.” The King dismissed the court.

She was left in the great hall, now under the staring eyes of Edmure Tully, the maester, and the King in the North himself.

“I knew you are Princess Myrcella Baratheon.” Robb Stark said to her, softly.

She didn’t know what to reply, so for politeness she curtsied.

“You will be safe under my roof, I guarantee that. Unfortunately in this dire time you will stay with me here in Riverrun, as my sisters are in your brother’s court. Do you understand?”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” she murmured.

“I am sorry for your… guards and sworn shield.”

Tears rolled down her cheek again at the mention of ser Arys and her household guards.

“You will be treated with respect and given appropriate accommodations suitable for people on your station. Maester Vyman, please make sure the cuts and bruises are tended to. She’d need bath and food, too, I’d wager. See to it.”

The old maester nodded and bowed, summoning two handmaids to take her away from the great hall. As per the King’s order, the maester cared for her wounds; applying ointment on her cuts and making sure she is not in any mortal danger before sending her off to her solar.

It was a guest room in Riverrun; spacious with large bed and private bathroom which she sighed in longing as the maids poured pails of hot water into a large wooden tub. She was stripped from her dirty dress and soaked herself in the tub. A maid has dropped perfume oil so that the water smells of fresh citrus and mint.

Leaning against the tub, she closed her eyes and remembered that she had to stay in Riverrun during the war, as his two sisters were in King’s Landing as Joffrey’s prisoners.

“My lady?” a maid’s soft voice was heard behind her and she turned. “Uh, Princess? I was told to bring you to dine with the King if you are done bathing.”

She nodded. “Of course. Thank you.”

The late Lord of Riverrun, Hoster Tully, had two daughters who later became Lady Stark and Lady Arryn. She was given one of their old gowns, ones that look decent and fit to her. It came in dark green even though she suspected the real color was more bright green. It doesn’t feel dirty or musty, and she wears it gratefully.

The King was waiting in his solar guarded only with the gray beast that sniffed at her before took its place on his master’s heel.

“I hope my direwolf didn’t scare you, Princess.”

“He did, but now I understand he didn’t mean harm.” Myrcella replied, curtsied.

Robb Stark smiled and for a moment she was confused of why would a King smiles at his hostage. Joffrey surely never smiles unless the event was to humiliate or to torture someone, which he indulged.

“Please take a seat. You must be hungry.”

“I am. Thank you… Your Grace.”

Warm corn soup, piles of soft buttered bread, mutton and beef, trouts baked with herbs and lemon juice made her mouth water. She tried to eat politely even though her stomach rumbled loudly as the smells of the food in front of her reach her nostrils. Robb seemed as if he was suppressing a laugh.

“It might not as grand as what you have in King’s Landing,” he started, “but in war even nobles and mostly King have to look after his people. His men cannot go to bed hungry, or go to war knowing the families they left behind are starving.”

“You are very kind, Your Grace.” she took a spoonful of the corn soup and almost cried on how delicious it taste.

“My direwolf—Grey Wind—saw you circling in the forest. You almost freeze to death last night, if not for Grey Wind kept you warm with his body heat. I sent Lord Bolton and his best hunters to go find you. You are very valuable to keep my sisters safe.”

The buttered bread suddenly was hard to swallow.

“Tell me, about my sisters.” he demanded. “Are they treated well?”

 _Yes,_ she wanted to say, but something in his eyes stopped any words spilling out from her mouth. _Was it sadness she saw? Longing?_ She had heard about how the young Robb Stark, eldest son and heir of Lord Eddard Stark, had called his bannermen and marched south to avenged her fallen father and rescued his sisters, while announces that the North will be free from tyranny of the iron throne.

“No,” she said, barely a whisper, and the young King tensed.

“No?”

_Joffrey made his kingsguard beat Sansa bloody, and Arya… we cannot find Arya, who’s missing and presumed dead since the purging of your household in Kings’s Landing…_

“Tell me.” he urged. “You’ve my word that you will be treated with respect, no matter what you will say, as long as you tell the truth.”

“T—They beat Sansa,” she finally speak, feeling ill and remorseful. She only saw the afterwards of course, how the purple welts peeked beneath the Stark girl dress. How wobbly she’d walk after the beatings she endured in the throne room. Once she thought she saw the oldest Stark girl’s broken lip, but when she asked her mother she was dismissed. She never asked Sansa directly of course, but more than twice she had heard how Joffrey brags about it. “Everytime you won a battle, my brother would ordered his Kingsguard to beat Sansa.”

“And Arya? What about my sister Arya?”

_Was that pain that I saw in your eyes?_

She shook her head. “I heard that she’s missing, the day… the day Lord Stark… challenged Joffrey’s reign.”

They sat in silence. A minute passed, then two.

“I am truly sorry… Your Grace…” she offered meekly. “I understand I did not deserve your kindness, not after...”

“Which I’d still offer, nonetheless,” he cut her off. “But when I marched to King’s Landing, I’d have my hands on your brother to make him answer for the crimes against my House.”

She shuddered. “My brother is not an honorable man, but he is my brother still.”

One of the tableware is a small knife used to grease butter. The pointy end is not too sharp, but maybe if you plug it in with the right strength and angle, it might be quite hurtful. She could defend herself with it, giving a little resistance if they mean to hurt her.

_But what about the direwolf?_

The direwolf’s golden yellow eyes kept lurking towards her, as if it could reading her mind.

Before she could react, Robb Stark swiftly pulled his dagger and stood up from the table to grab her hair, which hung loosely on her shoulder. She shrieked in surprise as he cuts a strand of her hair with his dagger.

Robb calmly took his seat again—securing the hair he cuts from her on the table. Without a word he produced a necklace from his cloak. She instantly recognized the necklace; made of pure gold mined from the depth of Casterly Rock and chiseled with a motif of roaring lion. Her mother gave her the necklace as a gift for her betrothal. _To remind me that I am a lioness,_ she thought. Ser Arys had her strip from all her sigils and jewels but she had asked him to keep the necklace safe until they reach their destination.

“Are you going to have me beaten, too?” she had to ask, hating the fact that her voice trembled.

Robb looked disgusted and offended by her question.

“No. But I need to send raven to your mother and brother about you.”

“I am your prisoner, I am at your mercy.” she said, before added, “Your Grace.”

He looked at her sadly. “Yes, and we are at war. I will keep you safe and alive. But I cannot guarantee the same treatment for Joffrey, or the Queen, when I get to them.”

Suddenly she didn’t feel hungry anymore. She asked if the King still has any needs of her, besides a few strands of her hair, because if not she’d like to retreat to her bedchamber.

“My guards will escort you safely to your chamber, Princess.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

The three guards took her back to the front door of her solar, opened it before shoving her unceremoniously inside. She heard the sound of a key being turned and sat on her bed, alone in the dark but warm with roof above her head. She envied Sansa Stark for having a brother that raised an army to save her, to avenged their father. She saw it now, how the older girl always looked hopeful whenever the King in the North was mentioned or brought into conversation without Joffrey within earshot.

 _How the table had turned,_ she said to herself, in irony and self-pity. _I wish now I had Sansa Stark’s courage and faith that her brother would win the war and come to rescue her… but now I only feel dread. My own brother would not come to save me, not while he was busy cutting cats and torturing his prisoners, starving his people... I should just tell the King in the North to kill me and be done with it. Joffrey wouldn’t care much I was alive or not._

She gave in to sleep. Her dreams was filled with strange yellow eyes lurking at her behind the shadows, headless guards in their crimson and gold armors, before a knight in gray armor and black-brown furs that looked sadly to her with his bright blue eyes.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Eight days later she learnt it was not Joffrey who raised an army to safe her. It was her grandfather, Tywin Lannister, and her uncle Jaime Lannister who marched to the Riverlands with sixty thousands men-at-arms, demanding her release. King Robb had sent for her to join him and Lady Catelyn for supper where she learnt the news.

The look Lady Catelyn gave her could freeze even the hot Dorne desert when she entered the King’s solar, escorted by three northern men-at-arms. It was the first time she met Lady Catelyn again after Winterfell a year ago and the situation cannot be more awkward as the supper progressed. Lady Catelyn didn’t even try to hide her displeasure having to share a meal with her.

“Thank you, for lending me your dresses, my lady.” she tried to offer her gratitude, only for the older woman to nod curtly.

“It was old dresses… _Princess._ ” she replied.

Robb gazed his mother a look and Lady Catelyn added, “I hope my old dresses are more useful to you, before we find a seamstress to make you a better one. Though I am afraid the current situation is not feasible if a prisoner of war wears such luxury.”

“Mother, Princess Myrcella Baratheon is our guest.” Robb cautioned.

“Is she?” Lady Catelyn raised an eyebrow. “I thought she is Lannister all over?”

Robb shifted in his seat, his direwolf at his heel.

“My mother is a Lannister, my lady. But my father, King Robert, is Baratheon.” Myrcella said, feeling like a little girl under the Stark matriarch glaring eyes.

“You are Lannister all over when your _kingly_ brother beheaded my husband.” she said with wrath on her tone. Lady Catelyn opened her mouth again to say more before her son put a hand on hers and she looked away, pursing her lips together.

“Please excuse my mother.” Robb said, “She just returned from Dragonstone, on my behalf. She is _exhausted._ ”

“I truly understand, Your Grace, my lady. I hope your journey went well.”

Lady Catelyn did not look at her but continued to eat, which she also did. She felt stupid saying what they must have known already, but the young King and his mother’s behavior were tense as if there was something she does not know. And she didn’t blame how Lady Catelyn react to her; her heart ached too, knowing how scattered Lady Catelyn’s family now. To have her eldest son marching south to freed Lord Eddard, only to received news that Joffrey chopped his head… one daughter missing and presumed dead, the other beaten on daily basis on Joffrey’s court… the rest of Lady Catelyn’s sons are alone in Winterfell. If she were Lady Catelyn she’d be mad at the nearest Baratheon-Lannister, too.

Among the news of Tywin Lannister raising his armies, also news that Jaime Lannister attacked some of the riverlords that were sent by Edmure Tully into the westerlands at Golden Tooth to prevent the Lannister army from crossing into their lands. The King in the North think that Jaime Lannister was ordered to attack the Riverlands by Tywin Lannister after receiving raven about her. The battle ended gruesomely on the riverlords’ side, as some of the high lords were among the casualties and the rest were forced to retreated to Riverrun.

“They are coming for you, Princess.” Robb said, looking at her calmly. “Your uncle’s victory at the Battle of the Golden Tooth allowed Tywin Lannister to moved northwest through the Riverlands unimpeded. They will be here soon.”

“What are you going to do, Your Grace?” suddenly she was afraid. For what, she does not know.

Robb Stark’s blue eyes emitted a ferocity she had never seen in the eyes of another man. Maybe some seasoned warriors, like Joffrey’s sworn shield The Hound, or ser Barristan Selmy.... but those are much older than Robb Stark, and more seasoned.

 _A green soldier boy,_ her mother laughed when she heard Robb Stark marched south.

 _But no, his eyes are just like them,_ Myrcella thought. _Like those seasoned warriors, who had seen blood and hungry for more. A boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders,_ she suddenly realized. _Was it the war, or the crown they placed on his head that made him grow so fast?_

Candlelight emanates from Robb Stark’s eyes, making it look bluer and the depth of it makes her short of breath.

“You will be safe here in Riverrun,” he said, and she was too drawn to his eyes that she almost missed his next words. “I leave before the first light.”

She spent her days in her room, reading and sometimes sewing. Robb Stark had been kind enough to let her borrow any books she wanted from the Riverrun’s library, under Maester Vyman guidance and supervision. On her first morning in Riverrun, the King in the North came to her solar to made sure she was comfortable enough as his guest of honor. It was then he realized that she didn’t have much to spend her time with and made the gesture to opened up the library for her. At first she was wary, but then she grew to appreciate his effort.

Before their awkward supper with Lady Catelyn, Robb Stark has already used to invite her to dine with him in several occasions. They’d eat their food in silence, the sound that was heard was the clatter of their cutlery or the sound of his direwolf chewing bones under the table. He seemed lost in his own mind, sometimes out of blue he’d ask about his sisters, his late father or the household guards that were slain in King’s Landing.

She knew he invited her to eat with him because he wanted to hear about his family, without other company to eavesdrop.

She didn’t spend her time much around the younger Stark girl, Arya, but she knew Lord Eddard hired a bravoosi man to trained the girl in sword-playing. Robb Stark was delighted to hear it and a rare smile appeared on his handsome face. When she told him that sometimes she envied Arya for having a father that was so open minded he allowed his daughter to lift a sword (even a wooden one), Robb’s face shone with pride. They quickly changed to a stern and angry one if she told him about Sansa. Among the Stark girls she spent more time with Sansa Stark, for their love of needle work. One time she asked Sansa if the older Stark girl would like to visit the King’s Landing’s godswood with her, which Sansa accepted.

“...but Sansa’s needle work is much better than I do,” she once said, and again she was rewarded with his smile.

“She is a gifted seamstress,” Robb replied, for a moment he slid off his kingly mask and become the boy in his age talking proudly about his little sisters. “thank you for spending time with my sisters, with Sansa especially, after she lost everyone she knew.”

The day Robb Stark and his army marched out through the Riverrun gate was a cloudy day, the wind blew hard and rain drizzle down since dawn. He left her with three Stark household guards who looks at her like she was some annoying dirt on their boots, but she paid no mind to them. As day after day progressed, she dine alone in her solar, finding that she missed Robb Stark’s presence. He was the only person in the huge castle that ever speak to her, aside from maester Vyman.

Three days after Robb gone, a raven came and Lady Catelyn rode out with ser Rodrik Cassel to meet Robb somewhere between the north and the riverlands, or  wherever they camp. She wanted to ask maester Vyman where could they been but she didn’t dare so under the hawking eyes of her three bodyguards.

So instead she read and she sew—until one afternoon she looked up to her window and saw a vast riders galloping towards the castle bearing Stark and Tully sigils. She knocked on her solar’s door and one of the guards opened it from outside, looking irritated.

“I saw riders coming through.” she said.

“Aye, the King arrived.”

“I’d like to go to meet them.”

“What for?”

“I am not a prisoner, am I?” she asked, and her guard grumbled.

They followed her to the great hall where almost all riders gathered. Serving maids were already busy giving glasses of ale and wine to the soldiers who had entered the great hall. A few lords sat in long wooden chairs and Myrcella’s heart started to pound as she saw them covered in mud and almost all dripping blood. Two men carried their comrade, his left foot missing and Myrcella took a sharp breath at the sight. She located maester Vyman who was treating the wound of a large white-haired man with four chains linked by a central ring sigil on his breastplate, blood flowed from his temples which was torn by his opponent’s sword. More wounded soldiers came through the door and filling the great hall. Everywhere she looked she saw bloodied men-at-arms. Those who were missing a limb moaned and screamed, the rest just sat on the stone floor and sipped their wine.

_Did they win?_

_If that so, then what about the Lannister troops?_

_Is uncle Jaime and her grandfather safe?_

In a short time the great hall was filled with wounded soldiers. Some still carry arrows caught  in their bodies, others suffer from open wounds that pour blood on the floor.

“We need to amputate that leg!”

“Don’t! Please don’t take off my foot!”

“Wine for the wounded, and milk of the poppy only for those who need amputation!”

“Strip them out of their armors! Fetch more water and bring me sterilized needles! Hurry, these men need their wounds to be sewn!”

Maester Vyman’s voice pulled her from her eerie and she hurriedly came to the old maester. Her three guards looked uncertain as they followed her.

“Maester Vyman, Is there anything I can help?” she asked. She had too. The old maester and the servants were overwhelmed by the sudden flood of men and more are coming through the castle’s sluice gate.

“Princess, you shouldn’t be here.” maester Vyman answered. “You better go back to your solar.”

“I can help. Please, I want to.”

The maester looked doubtful but he nodded, “Fine then. Can you sew wounds?”

“I can try.”

Maester Vyman gave her threads of silk and sterilized needle to sew. A young soldier was brought on a stretcher in front of her, stripped from his armor from the waist up to show a gaping wound on his shoulder. The sword’s wound was deep and he groaned in pain even though he was half subdued by wine. She had to resist the nausea when she saw his flesh peeking out from the wound. A woman brought a bowl of water for her to wash her hands and put needles that have been boiled in hot water on the table.

Under the maester guidance she cleaned the wound first and while the bleeding thankfully has stopped, there’s still a giant, gaping wound in the soldier’s bare shoulder. She needs to sew it to reduce the chance of infection.  

“Just like when you sew a dress.” the maester said as she carefully pushed the needle through the soldier’s skin.

It was different; she could feel the flesh beneath her finger shuddered to reject puncture after punctures she carefully took. While garments are easy to penetrate and stay still, but not human flesh. They are thick and resilient as she tried to sew above the fat, and when she had gone deep enough she twist her hand so that the needle starts coming up on the other side of the wound. Her hands were shaking the whole affair but thankfully she managed just fine--or at least she thought so.

“Good,” the maester nodded, satisfied. “Pull the tip of the needle until you have about one or two inches of the silk left on the right side of the wound, before you release the needle.”

She did as the maester instructed and created a simple overhand knot with two loops to secure the silk. It took her ten minutes to patch up the soldier, and when she is finished another was brought to her. By her second soldier, maester Vyman had long gone to tend other wounded men.

She had just finished patching up her seventh soldier when cries was heard from the castle yard.

_“The King in the North!”_

_“The King in the North!”_

She stood up, the front of her dress and hands covered with blood but she couldn’t find any clean water to soak them.

“ _The King in the North!”_

Even the wounded scattered in the great hall shouted for their young king in jubilant cries. The sound of warhorns was heard along with the sight of Stark and Tully and Umber and Bolton and other banners fluttering in the wind. She followed several soldiers who could walk into the castle field to see the arrival of the King.

“ _The King in the North!”_

Both Northern lords and Riverlords shouted their salutations as Robb Stark rode into Riverrun, his face and his armor covered in blood and dirt. By his side was his giant direwolf, stood as tall as a grown man’s waist, its snout the color of human’s blood.

_“The King in the North!”_

_“The King in the North!”_

_“The King in the North!”_

That day Robb Stark had won more battles in a year than the Lord of Highgarden had in twenty.

 


	4. Chapter 4

She was brought into the King’s solar. Robb was standing by the windowsill, still wearing his usual grey-brown surcoat over his bloodied armor when she entered the room.  
“Welcome back, Your Grace.” she said, curtsied deeply.

His face was tired but he stood tall. “Thank you, Princess. I heard you helped maester Vyman with the wounded soldiers.” he eyeing her soiled dress.

“It—it was the right thing to do, Your Grace.”

Robb gestured her to sit, which she complied. “Those are not your men.”

“They are men just the same.”

He looked taken aback by her response and she wondered if she had crossed a line.

She bowed her head, apologetic. There was dry blood smeared on his sculpted jaw that he had not washed yet. She had to resist the urge to stared at his hardened face.

“I should thank you, then.” Robb said, still standing despite there were vacant chairs.

“There is no need to thank me, Your Grace, I should be the one thanking you. You have been kind enough to me.”

She realized they are alone in his solar. No servants or guards, even his direwolf was not present. Everyone seemed to be busy with themselves after a battle.

“Is there anything you need of me, Your Grace?” she asked.

“Yes. I want to informed you firsthand that we slain hundreds if not thousands, of Lannister men-at-arms,” Robb said. “I’ve promised the Queen regent and your brother that if my peace terms are not met I’ll litter the south with Lannister dead.”

“M—My grandfather… is he...?”

“Beaten at the Green Fork. I heard he retreated to Harrenhal with tails between his legs and arrows poking from his back.”

“And my uncle…?”

Robb’s bright blue eyes pierced into hers.

“The Kingslayer fought bravely. We took him alive, but unfortunately not before he cut down Lord Kastark’s sons.” he added grimly.

She nodded. “Thank you for telling me, Your Grace.” she hates war and what it brings.

“You have the right to know.”

“Are—are you going to kill us? My uncle and I, I mean…” she hates how her voice trembled.

“No. You are both more valuable alive.” he said plainly.

“Can I meet my uncle?”

“Not this time, I am afraid. We put him in the dungeon.”

She nodded. “Is there anything else, Your Grace?”

“No.”

“If you will excuse me?”

“Of course, Princess.”

She curtsied and was about to open the door when Robb called her.

“Princess Myrcella.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Don’t wander too far.”

 

The castle was again loud and busy with thousands of people gathered; soldiers told stories about how Robb Stark split his army into two and delivered chaos to the Lannister armies. Servants and stable boys talked about how men flocked onto the Young Wolf’s cause, the northern lords, riverlords, and now news came about Lady Catelyn’s success on bringing Stannis Baratheon’s fleet. Lady Catelyn has gone again on another lobbying, this time to her sister Lady Arryn in the Vale.

Now with the danger kept at bay by the King in the North—or _the Young Wolf,_ she overheard the common folk say in admiration—people seek Riverrun as refuge. The war had left bitter taste surrounding the riverlands, while the western and the crownlands are soon approached by it. The King and his army would soon marched south again, this time with Stannis Baratheon’s army and maybe the knights of the Vale, if Lady Catelyn secures an alliance. The victories Robb collected for the riverlords owned him yet another title; _The King of the Trident._ She mused how a young man just barely two or three namedays older than Joffrey, could make such an impact.

Her three guards followed her to a small sept built by the Tullys in Riverrun, beside the maester tower. She light a candle in front of each of the seven statues but more in the feet of the Stranger, offering prayers for the fallen men-at-arms. Lannister, Baratheon, Stark, Tully, Karstark, every houses were the same in the eyes of death. No matter highborn or lowborn, all men bows to the Stranger. She prayed for Sansa Stark too, for she knew every time Robb Stark won a battle Joffrey would summoned her to the throne room to have her beaten by his Kingsguard. Tears dripping from her eyes as she imagined Sansa Stark’s fate at the moment.

On the other hand, she was relieved that Robb Stark came back safe and whole from the battlefield.

 _How strange was that,_ she thought, as she rose to her feet after her prayers. _I shouldn’t pray for the enemy who keep me and my uncle hostage. I should pray for my own brother’s win so that I could come home… but to what? What is home? They’d send me away again against my will._

She was about to left the sept when a heated argument was heard outside. A bearded old man with his dented and bloodied armor bearing white sunburst on a black field was arguing with her guards. Three other men stood behind him, their swords at hand.

“Move,” the bearded man warned her guards.

The younger ones looked wary and took a step back, but the oldest of the three— _Walton,_ she remembered—shook his head and unsheathed his sword.

“Apologies, my lord. The King has ordered us no one to approach the Princess.”

“You are a good northern man, Walton. But I only want Lannister’s blood, not our own.”

“No. King’s order, my lord.”

“So you are laying your life for that abomination?” the old man shouted.

“Can I help you, my lord?” angry eyes turned to look at her as she stepped out from the sept.

“Your father killed my sons!” the old man yelled. “Blood for blood, you little bitch!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, my lord, but if you please sheathed your swords in this holy place…”

Before she know it the old man launched at her with his sword, but Walton moved quickly to fend off the deadly strike from the iron tip. The two younger ones were shocked by the sudden blows, but regained their flexes quick enough to fend off the three men brought by Lord Karstark.

“My lords, _please!”_

Her pleas fell to deaf ears as the men kept ringing their steel onto each other, Lord Karstark attacked with such ferocity that Walton was pushed back defending himself from the old man’s sword. It was clear which party has the upper hand and she screamed as Walton lost his footing and fell.

 _“Yield!”_ Her two other guards immediately threw their swords to the ground.

“Bring me the girl!”

Two men-at-arms grabbed her by her arm and shoved her kneeling in front of Rickard Karstark.

“You little abomination,” he spat as he grabbed her by the hair. “I will happily presented your pretty head to the Kingslayer! See if he likes you on a golden plate.”

Before she could reply a wave of grey hit Lord Karstark until the man let go of her hair before falling backwards. Grey Wind stood above the man, holding his chest on the ground with its paws. The direwolf growled loudly, its muzzle just inches from the Lord’s neck.

“Grey Wind, to me.” another voice was heard and the direwolf leaped from Lord Karstark’s body to stood beside Robb Stark.

Robb, along with his battle companions of highborn warriors, appeared from the castle. His companions already drew their weapons but he calmly stood, his hand rest on the hilt of his sword. Though he remain calm but Myrcella sensed his anger, the way he clenched his jaw and how primal the growl his dire wolf gave out, its golden eyes never leaving Rickard Karstark.

One of his companion helped her to her feet and lead her to the young king.

“I believe you meant no harm to our guest, my lord?” Robb asked the older man coldly.

“Guest?!” Lord Karstark screamed. “She is an abomination! Lannister filth!” he spat. “She better rot in the deepest dungeon with the Kingslayer!”

“I understand you are grieving, my lord, as does everyone here. Your sons fought gallantly and yet, they fell. I cannot ask for a more loyal and courageous warriors like your sons, Harrion and Eddard.”

At the mention of his sons’ names, the older men broke into tears.

“My sons!” he screamed in agony. “No fathers should bury their sons!”

“No father or mother should, my lord.” Robb said solemnly. He turned to her with concern in his eyes. “Are you hurt, Princess?”

She shook her head, “No, Your Grace.” She breathed a sigh of relief seeing Walton standing up, apparently not injured.

Robb reached out to confiscate the dust that spoils her cheeks. When his hand touched her skin, she felt like she was electrocuted, hypnotized by his blue eyes which seemed to glow under the afternoon sun. Robb has not removed his leather gloves, and she could smell blood and the sun and sweat emanating from it. She swallowed hard.

Robb turned his attention to Lord Karstark again, who still grieving his dead sons but didn’t give resistance as two men seized him.

“Let him go, ser Donnel.” Robb said, to Lord Karstark’s surprise. “I understand your grief, my lord. But this accident will not happen again without severe consequences. Those we held hostage will be exchange with our northern friends, fathers and sons. Don’t hurt them. Grieve, my lord, and return to battlefield with me to avenge the fallen.”

Lord Karstark threw himself to the ground again near Robb’s feet, sobbing.

Her chest almost burst with affection as she watched the young King; dark and solemn, poised with the weight of the world. War truly had chewed a boy and spit out a man.

 _But not my brother,_ she thought.

“Take her to her chamber.” she heard him say, before a firm hand of Dacey Mormont nudge at her. “Clean yourself, Princess. Today is a tiring day for all of us.”

The incident with Lord Karstark made Robb doubled her guards, with Patrek Mallister and Daryn Hornwood assigned to check on her periodically. Walton and other Stark men never left her side and at night they stood guard in front of her door (they still locked her inside her chamber).

She still hadn’t allowed to see her uncle as Robb had ordered her to stay in her chamber. Library and the sept are the only place she still could visit from time to time, with her guards flocking around her. Lady Catelyn hasn’t returned from the Vale yet and no ravens from the eyrie either. The war keep raging in the riverlands and westerlands borders, led by Gregor Clegane—the Mountain That Rides, they say. More and more refugees are coming to Riverrun and Myrcella knows it only a matter of time before Robb Stark marched again. She had heard the atrocities that became the Mountain’s reputation.

But it is not what troubled her, which made her feels selfish and mean.

It was what Lord Karstark had said when he attacked her in front of the sept, which troubled her sleepless nights. She had heard it whispered in the Red Keep; spiteful accusations and mean gossips. _None of it was true… wasn’t it?_

She remembered her late father, King Robert Baratheon, first of his name and all of those titles… she remembered how big and strong her father was tossing her in the air and catching her, an act that made her squealed with with joy but her mother seething. _But_ _Mother never liked anything about her father, though, did she?_

She remembered her uncle Jaime, proud and gallant and always smiling to her. Come to think about it, she realized she does not resembled her father at all; Robert was dark and coarse, while her uncle… well, _just like her._

Before she even realized it she had come to recalled nostalgic memories of her uncle—she remembered he held her for hours when she was crying after Joffrey did something terrible to her, how uncle Jaime would smirked to her from across the room as if telling her _I’m here_ inaudibly. He’d be the one she is looking for whenever she was sad or just plain happy to share something. He was always near her, or her mother. Even though she knew Cersei never liked it whenever she caught her with uncle Jaime, but Myrcella knows her uncle loved to spent time with her. She had loved him for that, for being the father figure she never had from Robert.

 _I have to see him,_ Myrcella thought. _I have to see uncle Jaime._

Her chance came three days after the incident with Lord Karstark, when Robb came to her chamber. He looks tired but his eyes woke with caution.

“Your Grace,” she dipped into her curtsied before Robb waved her a hand.

“I’d like you to stop doing that,” he said with a chuckle. “I never used to it.”

Robb stared at her and suddenly she feels self-conscious.

“My mother’s old gowns are no longer fits you. There is a seamstress among the refugee, I already tell her to make you some decent gowns. Do you like that, Princess?”

“Your Grace is too kind. But if it pleases you, I rather have something other than new dresses. The ones Lady Catelyn lend me are enough.” _She had to ask. She need to see uncle Jaime._

“What is it?” Robb looked surprised.

“I want to see Jaime Lannister, Your Grace.”

Robb looked at her, sizing. “Is something troubling you?”

“I just want to see familiar face, Your Grace.”

He sighed. They sat in silence for a moment. When she thought the Young Wolf might never grant her request (which she understands because she is his hostage after all), Robb called to Daryn Hornwood to escort her to the dungeon.

The dungeon was dark, empty and cold; its cells stood silently and the ceiling drips. It was as if the cells were made right under the river. Jaime Lannister was placed at the further end of the tunnel, chained inside the darkest, smallest cell. She almost cried when she saw him; malnourished and dirty, Jaime Lannister’s clean shaven face now overgrown with whiskers and messy beard. He was dressed in rags, his armor out of sight.

“Is that you or am I dreaming?” his voice a low growl, hoarse from his chapped lips.

“Uncle Jaime,” she threw herself to him and hugged her uncle’s neck.

Jaime Lannister was chained to a stone wall he couldn’t move, but he pressed his cheek to hers.

“Don’t,” he said, “You will ruin your dress. I sit on my own shit.”

She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. His uncle was more concerned about her old borrowed dress. “Are you well, uncle? They didn’t treat you right.”

“As long as they treat you good, or I’d strangle them with their own guts.” he spat.

“They are kind to me, uncle. Robb Stark make sure I am safe.”

“Does he?” Jaime Lannister let out a crook laugh. “Well, he better be.”

“I will ask Robb Stark to provide better treatment for you,”

“I doubt it, my dear. I’ve killed dozens of his followers. But you, I hope you stay safe.”

“Uncle,” tears are now streaming down her cheeks. She was relieved that the cell was so dark that maybe her uncle couldn’t see her crying. _There’s so many things I’d like to tell you,_ she wanted to say.

“Myrcella,” he sensed her sadness, her doubts. He tried to leaned to her but his movements was cut short by the chains around his neck and his wrists.

“I wished I didn’t run away. I—I thought if I seek you in Casterly Rock you’d shield me from being sent to Dorne—,”

“It’s okay, Myrcella…”

“No, it is not! I hate seeing you like this,” she sobbed.

“Listen, Myrcella,” her uncle’s voice rising, “I’d do it again, do you hear me? I’d crushed the enemy’s gate to keep you safe. I’d fight everyone who try to send you against your will. Do you understand?”

 _I know,_ her heart whispered. _You always have my back. Always._

"It's enough, Princess Myrcella. Time to go." Ser Daryn's voice interrupted.

“Be strong now. Lions will come to get you. A Lannister always pays his debts.”

She hugged her uncle again, tighter, and felt his head caressing her wet cheek.

“I will try to see you again.” she whispered.

Her uncle smiled, a sad and tired one. “Be safe, my dear. Know that I’d kill anyone who tries to harm you.” his eyes flicked to her back, to the Stark guards staring at them and to ser Daryn Hornwood. “Tell the King in the North I’d come to get him if he lay a finger on my niece.”

“You have tried, Kingslayer.” ser Daryn mocked. “You are welcome to try again from this cell.”

Before ser Daryn could pulled her from the cell, she kissed Jaime’s cheek and promised she’d try to see him again. She’d trade the comfort of her chamber, of her hearth and her food if it meant she can see her uncle, to have him fed and warm. She needs his strength, her kin… her father figure.

When she returned to her chamber she was surprised to see Robb Stark was still there, waiting for her.

She was too exhausted and too wary it made her broke down again. This time strong hands envelope her in one warm embrace, the grey and brown fur surcoat tickled her nose.


	5. Chapter 5

She found comfort in helping Maester Vyman tending the sick and wounded, men-at-arms and common folk alike. Reading and sewing are indeed her favorite past time activities, but over time she cannot concentrate on what she reads or sew. Her mind always returns to Robb Stark. So being around other people at least put the Young Wolf out of her mind, though at night she tossed around on her bed, restless everytime she recalled his smile her heart ache for something. It was the time when she gave up trying to sleep and pick up her needles. She was given threads of linen and wool to sew with, and decided to made something just to be busy. 

The night Robb embraced her had left her feeling lost, confused and uncertain. He had been kind to her, and after he let her go she whispered a weak “ _thank you, Your Grace.”_ which he only nod in reply. His eyes shone with such intensity and a gentleness she couldn’t described, she almost yearns to be lost in it forever. Or maybe she already was.

A few days after her visit to the dungeon a squire found her in the maester tower as she was helping maester Vyman overseeing stitch wound to some soldiers. Robb had allowed her to visit Jaime Lannister again in the dungeon as long as she was accompanied by one of his kingsguard companions and other guards, another gesture she was thankful for.

“Please tell the King that I am very grateful for it.” she had said, and the squired bowed before leaving the maester tower.

Robb doesn’t invite her to dine with him again as he spend his time locked in his chamber with his companions and other lords. She usually eats in her solar alone, but after days of eating alone she finally couldn’t stand the silence and decided to break her fast at the great hall. Taking care of the sick and wounded make her surrounded by people, but they don’t talk much (other than groaning in pain) and she longs to _really_ talk to people. She had tried to make small talk with her maids whenever they helped her bathe or get dressed, but the women ignored her. Even her guards only snorted in annoyance if she speak to them.

Every morning, long wooden tables were placed inside the great hall for soldiers and lords to break their fasts together. This seems to be a habit in Winterfell and Lord Edmure Tully is kind enough to extend it in Riverrun. Piles of bread made of barley and oats were served on the table, along with milk, honey and dates, pork sausages, eggs, and fish porridge; Robb Stark has been true to his word, they were simple meals but are appreciated. Soon she was surrounded by conversations around her; soldiers with sleepy faces chewing bread, lords scooped up porridge with their wooden spoons while chatting in loud voice. A man burst out laughing across the table. Several serving maids paced around the tables pouring ale and carrying dirty dishes. She had never been surrounded by so many people and conversations, sitting by herself on the bench like other common folk. She rathers enjoyed it.

The only disappointment was she didn’t see Robb Stark on the dais, only Lord Edmure and some other lords with their porridge bowls. She had hope to see Robb, to thank him herself for allowing her to visit her uncle again. She used her visitation allowance yesterday after she had finished helping maester Vyman.

“Do you know where the King might be, ser?” she turned to Walton after she finished her meal. Walton seemed to resist rolling his eyes at her question.

“How did I know?” he replied rather irritably.

At that very moment Patrek Mallister had come to check on her. The young man has sandy brown hair and a smirk that always decorate his plain freckled face.

“There you are. Walton, Stop being so sullen, you shouldn’t have the time for it, guarding such beauty.” Patrek Mallister remarked. This time Walton really rolled his eyes.

“She wanted to see the King.” Walton said in bored tone.

“What business you have in mind with the King in the North, Princess?” ser Patrek asked, rather curiously.

“Just want to offer my gratitude for his kindness, my lord.” she replied. “I have not seen him for days.”

“He is busy planning our next move.” ser Patrek said, but offering his arm for her to hold. “But why, I could take you to him. He is in the Godswood.”

“Godswood? There’s Godswood in Riverrun, too?”

Ser Patrek laughed at her widened eye. “Aye, there’s one in here, Princess. The only one left in the riverlands. But of course, there’s more in the north. Come.”

The Godswood was located at the further east of the castle, separated from other building and towers its almost forgotten. The only access was through a narrow uneven path with weeds and grass grow irregularly along the way. From the entrance she could see the top of the weirwood tree and its blood-red leaves, glowing in orange hues under the morning sun. Falling leaves tumbled from the interlocking branches, barely letting in gaps of sunshine through. Ser Patrek nodded towards the weirwood tree. She noticed Robb Stark’s grey and brown surcoat, his auburn hair was dark under the shade of the laughing tree.

Robb sat with his sword on his lap, honing it with whetstone using a slow and flat stroke. He seemed to concentrate on his work and for a moment was unaware of their presence. Grey Wind stood up from where he lay and smelled the air before his eyes moved towards ser Patrek and Myrcella, who both stopped on their track. It was then Robb looked up and saw them. His eyes widened with attention.

“Apologies, Your Grace. Princess Myrcella would like to see you.” ser Patrek said.

“Is there something wrong, Princess?” Robb asked, putting away the whetstone as he rose. He was half shadow under the laughing tree leaves. Robb has donned his armor; grey pauldrons on his shoulders and wolfskin tunic underneath brown gorget with leather strips that hold his coat in place making an X over his gorget. Not a full armor like southron lords and knights would wear, but enough steel to provide protection without reducing one’s agility on battlefield.

“I—,” she begin, suddenly feeling imprudent and nervous to have intrude Robb’s lone time.

“Leave us.” Robb told ser Patrek and Walton, who both bowed and without a word retreated to the Godwood’s entrance.

“I want to thank you, Your Grace.” she said, brushing away her embarrassment after they were left alone, out within earshot. “I went to visit my uncle yesterday, and I am thankful you give the opportunity to…”

“I am glad you are, Princess.” he cuts in, but not impatiently.

She must have been blabbering and she blushed crimson red at the thought.

“Are you going to battle again?” she asked, eyeing his armor.

“Maybe I am.” he answered.

Robb stood up straight as an arrow and he is a lot taller than she thought. _Well, she knew how tall he was when he hugged her… and how warm and how strong those arms could be around her shoulders._ She blushed at the memory.

“Does this Godswood here the same as the one in King’s Landing?” Robb suddenly asked.

For the first time she looked around, reluctantly tearing her eyes off him.

“I think it is smaller here.” she answered. “And much more abandoned. More lonely, I guess. But they are beautiful, in their own way.”

“The Godswood in Winterfell is the largest in Westeros. Three acres of forest within the walls of Winterfell.” Robb said, and she notes a tinge of longing in his deep voice. “Our weirwood tree standing over a pool of black water. Even in the coldest winter the pool never freeze.”

“I heard because there’s a dragon in the ground!” she chirped in and Robb had to laugh.

“So they say,” he said, sheathed his sword and gesturing her to sit under the tree.

She sat on a giant root that stretched out from the ground and Robb sat opposite of her. They stared silently for awhile until Myrcella blushed and had to looked away to where Grey Wind lay near the Godswood entrance.

“Do you know I was named after King Robert?” Robb asked.

“You are?” she knew Robb’s father was best friends with her late _father_ since they were Jon Arryn’s wards. But she never thought that Robert was Robb’s namesake.

Robb nodded.

“I was born here in Riverrun, when my father fought beside king Robert in his rebellion.” there was pride in his voice. “When the war was over my mother finally brought me to Winterfell, where I grew up. Well, until raven came bearing news about my father’s imprisonment.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Your Grace.” she said meekly. “I never offered you my condolences. Lord Stark was a good man.”

“He was.” Robb said. “And he was also the most honorable man I’ve ever known.”

“You do resembled him a lot, Your Grace.” she said earnestly.

He smiled at that.

“I am truly sorry that my brother murdered your father.”

“Murder?” Robb cocked his head. “I’ve never thought I would hear that from you.”

“Why? Because you also think that I am a Lannister through and through?”

“No, because I think you’ve been shielded your whole life and just swallowed whatever they chose to fed you.”

“Maybe I am, but I learn.” she said a bit defensively.

“You remind me of my sisters.”

“Sansa?”

“Sansa and Arya, both of them.”

“I will take that as a compliment, Your Grace.” she said boldly, smiling.

“Yes, you should, Princess,” he, too, replied with a smile. She admitted that she likes seeing him smile. It felt good and somehow it was easy to talk to him. They may called him King; the King in the North, the King of of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell, or whatever title they bestowed upon his shoulders, but to her… _he is just Robb, who longed for the north and his sisters._

Robb reached down to pick at buttercup flowers that grows wild on the forest floor. Its glittering yellow petals reflecting the morning light, as golden as the Lannister’s lion. He handed the flower to Myrcella who took it shyly. For a second their fingers brushed to each other, sending warmth that spread instantly to the rest of her body.

“Buttercup flowers.” she said.

“Yellow, like you.” Robb mused, his eyes moved to her golden hair. “Did you know that my father proposed your hand for me, instead of Sansa’s for Joffrey?”

She was shocked by the revelation and Robb’s soft lips stretched into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You didn’t know then. But of course, your mother was against it and King Robert decided to joined our Houses through Joffrey and Sansa. I think the King thought his best friend’s daughter as Queen of the seven kingdoms is more prestigious than having you in the cold north. It’s an honor, truly, betrothed to the crowned prince.” he sounded almost sincere about it.

“I think the honor would be mine, Your Grace, if it happened.” she said it without thinking.

“No. The honor would be mine, Princess. Though maybe in another life.” he said softly.

“Do you miss home? Winterfell?”

Robb searched her eyes—for what, she didn’t know, but his bright blue eyes twinkled with the gentleness she started to easily recognized.

“You think I am fighting this war so they’ll sing songs about me?” he asked her back. “I want to go home.” he answered plainly, his voice filled with emotion it makes her heart ache again. “I want the men who following me to go home.”

She didn’t know what possessed her; maybe the silence of the Godswood, or the sunlight peeking out from behind the leaves made Robb Stark look angry and vulnerable and sad at the same time she wanted to give little comfort for the young man, that she reached for his hand.

“Then why don’t you?” she said.

Robb twitched under her touch and she realized maybe she had said the wrong words.

_They are enemies, after all. Their families hate and kill each other._

“Because we will never safe until Lannisters are defeated. And because I believe in justice.”

 _Of course you are,_ she said to herself. _And I am a Lannister all over, like your mother said._

Robb pulled his hand from her grasp as footsteps was heard stepping on the dry twigs on the ground.

“Yes, Walton?”

“It’s Lady Catelyn, Your Grace. She has come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank miss @Comatoseskyy for her kind help on this chapter, she is very much appreciated for a suggestion that I wrecked my mind for lately :)   
> aaand... I have decided to write from Catelyn's PoV next.  
> Thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! :D  
> xx


	6. Chapter 6

**CATELYN**

The Vale won’t declare for neither side; the King in the North, the King of Iron Island, the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms, nor the King of Highgarden. They despise the boy King on the iron throne too, so no, the Lady Regent of the Vale made sure that the Vale would stand clear of any Kings and any war for the sake of Jon Arryn’s young sickly heir, Robin.

“At least they won’t declare for our enemy.” Greatjon Umber grumbled.

Robb had gathered the northern and riverlords in his chamber that noon. The spacious room was crowded with men standing around a large wooden table in the middle of the room, with Robb at the head of the table between Edmure Tully and Roose Bolton.

Lady Catelyn looked at her son with heavy feelings. “The North along with Stannis Baratheon and the riverlords’ support have amassed seventy-five thousands soldiers. Dorne has not declare neither side. If we could give them Princ—,”

“We are not sending back their Prince’s betrothed if that what you are suggesting, mother.” Robb replied.

The lords around the table looked at each other uneasily but they didn’t say a word.

“Our numbers are not enough to attack Casterly Rock nor King’s Landing.” Lord Bolton reminded him. “And even if we succeed, the King of Highgarden might attacked us easily and made us bend the knee again with his fresh ninety-thousands soldiers.”

“I can see that, my lord.” Robb said sharply. “And we are not attacking Casterly Rock, yet.”

“What are you going to do, Your Grace?” Greatjon Umber asked.

Robb thought for a moment before he spoke, weighting every word. “I knew you are hungry for blood, my lords.” and Lord Karstark stood straighter at his words. “I will give you blood and independence. We will deal with The Mountain first, before we set eye to Harrenhall. Did your scout find anything, my lord?” he turned to Lord Bolton.

“Getting closer to Riverrun each day, Your Grace. Ten thousands men-at-arms, will be at Stonemill village before the sun sets on the morrow.”

“Good. Let him come. And Lord Edmure, did you do as I bid?”

Lord Edmure Tully stroked his red beard and nod grimly. “Yes, Your Grace. Farmers are running for the safety of our walls at this very moment.”

Gregor Clegane or The Mountain That Rides, aggressive and lacking self control as he indulge in murder and rape, have been easy to lure. As per Robb’s instruction Lord Edmure had drew every riverland’s men-at-arms from the location that was approached by the Mountain. _“Let him take the mill and the village,”_ Robb had said, and Lord Edmure (after a heated debate he lost to Robb and Brynden Tully) reluctantly agreed. _“I’ve sent two thousands men to die, and I will do it again. I will let the Mountain have a mill, a village, or an inn if that meant I can have Tywin Lannister’s mad dog’s head by noon.”_

Catelyn gazed at her first born, seeing how the softness of his face had long gone. _He is not a boy any longer,_ she realized with sudden sadness. _He is seventeen now, a man grown._

They hutched over the wooden table; a wide map of the riverlands and its surrounding borders sprawled over under small wooden pieces sigils that represent their position and enemies. Maester Vyman handed a scroll to Robb.

“A raven came yesterday, my lords.” Robb said as he opened the scroll in his hand. “Stannis and his fleet has landed and take over Maidenpool from the lions. We will meet their troops in Harrenhall, carrying the Tywin’s mad dog’s head.”

The men around him cheered.

Robb moved a wolf and a trout on the map.

“Uncle Brynden, you have the honor to lead the cavalry with Lord Karstark.”

Brynden Tully—famed as the Blackfish—and Rickard Karstark bowed at the notion. Robb looked at the map, considered something, before he lift and moved another wolf and trout.

“Lord Cerwyn and Lord Brecken, you will ride with me. We will meet the Mad Dog from this western mountains where he’d passed after the Stonemill to get to us.”

Medger Cerwyn grasped his battle-axe tightly, “Your Grace. My axe and I are honed and ready to serve you.”

“We will have the mad dog’s head, Your Grace.” Jonos Brecken said.

Robb nodded. “We will need his head to sway Dorne to our cause, my lords. Make sure to bring his head. That way we won’t lose a valuable hostage, yet we might struck a pact with the dornish.” with that revelation he gazed to Catelyn.

Robb took another wolf piece, “Lord Bolton, take the infantry and meet Tywin’s mad dog in the vanguard.”

They are using the flanking maneuver with several variations. She sees that Robb is trying to flank the Mountain and his men by attacking him from three sides, at an angle to the enemy’s direction of engagement. The pincer movement executed by the attacking army, led by Lord Bolton, in front. Both flanks will led by her son and his companions, while the Blackfish and Lord Karstark finished in the rear with their horses. They’d encircled the Mountain’s men. Each lord will bring a legion of three thousand men, while the rest marched straight to Harrenhall led by Lady Maege Mormont and Lady Catelyn Stark on his stead, after leaving some of the riverlords’ army to garrison Riverrun.

“What about the Kingslayer?” Edmure Tully asked. “And that little princess?”

All eyes fell on Robb.

“I won’t keep all my treasures in one purse to make it easier for those who would rob me. I will bring the Kingslayer. The Princess stays here in Riverrun.” Robb said.

So it was decided; the strategy, the commanders, even hostages. They will ride before the first light. She chose to sat silently for the rest of the meeting, listening to Lords’ advices, Robb’s replies and maester Vyman’s report. Seeing Robb so calm and confident leading the war council made Catelyn’s heart filled with pride and sadness at the same time. The one at the end of the table should be Eddard Stark, and Robb at his side; learning, listening. They should be in Winterfell, not in the midst of war, faraway from home.

But don’t they prepared him enough? So much that the first thing he did when the boy King on the iron throne summons him to King’s Landing Robb had said, _“His Grace summons me to go to King’s Landing. I’ll go to King’s Landing. But not alone. Call the banners!”_

Ever since Robb left Winterfell she had to watch her first born became the man he is now. After their shock and anger upon Ned’s execution, the north refused to swear fealty to the iron throne. They had bent the knee three hundreds years ago to Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons, but now Targaryens and dragons were history. So they put the bronze crown decorated with nine black iron spikes shaped like longswords on her son’s head and hailed him “ _The King in the North!”_ as she watched. Now even the riverlords followed him too. Catelyn prays Gods be good to grant him strength, but most of all wisdom to lead them all.

It was Robb’s decision to sent her on his stead to Dragonstone. Stannis Baratheon is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and the enemy of their enemy is their friend, as musing as it was. Ned was killed because the truth he unearthed about Cersei’s children and for his support to Stannis. Honor made them can’t swear fealty or declare to Renly as he was the younger brother of Robert and Stannis, even when Renly commands a bigger deal number of army, backed by the wealth of the Reach.

Gods be good, as brooding stern and single minded as he was, Stannis is a man of honor himself. Ned has once said that Robert is steel, but Stannis is pure iron, hard and strong but brittle, the way iron gets. Renly was copper, pretty to look but soft. During Robert’s Rebellion Stannis held Storm’s End with only a token garrison against the mighty Tyrell and Redwyne forces more than a year.

 _“I learnt a great deal from Stannis,”_ Robb told her the day she sets sail to Dragonstone. _“Stannis held House Baratheon’s ancestral seat during Robert’s Rebellion. Should it fallen back then, Robert’s supporters would slowly bleeds away. Who wants to follow a man who cannot defend his own home? I am tasking the Reeds and the Menderlys to guard our land._ _Stannis is the man we need to take in our side, mother. Father trusts him. And he’s got ships, though lack of men. I have men, but no navy. We can be ally.”_ Robb had said.

Robb was right.

A man of little humor, Catelyn could sense Stannis Baratheon is not easily slide over the law for nobody or nothing. She had her doubts when she sailed to Dragonstone. Stannis has declared himself King, the rightful heir of the iron throne, and might have think Robb is an usurper demanding the freedom of the north. As far as she knew, Stannis is a man of law. He broke it only once, when he rebelled against the Mad King for the sake of his brother.

She had heard it from the hard man himself in Dragonstone, _“...a hard choosing; my blood, or my liege?”_ Stannis told her, his voice a low baritone, standing beside his maester when he received her. _“My brother, or my King? I don’t want the throne, but it is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine as Robert’s heir. That is law. After me it must pass to my daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son. I am King. Wants do not enter into it. I have a duty to my daughter, to the realm. Even to Robert, who loved me but little, I knew, yet he was my brother. The Lannister woman gave him horns and she may have murdered him as well as she murdered Jon Arryn and your husband Ned Stark. For such crimes there must be justice, starting with Cersei and her abominations. I mean to scour that court clean.”_

Stannis had asked if Robb would bend the knee, though, but Catelyn knew the north would have none of it. Independence must be on the table, aside from the safe delivery of Sansa Stark, Ned’s and their household’s remains, and Ice, the Stark’s ancestral greatsword.

She had helped Robb swayed Walder Frey to Robb’s cause, and she’d do it again if it helps him take the south to rescue her daughters. Of course Stannis was called Stannis the Mannis for naught, as he was harder to sway than the old Lord of the Crossing.

If Walder Frey had asked Robb to marry one of his daughters or granddaughters with the addition of putting some Frey boys as wards, Stannis wants the North under his command. Their negotiations were tough as expected, although in the end Stannis and Catelyn agreed that as long as Robb supplied men and maintaining peace in his own kingdom, the independence of the North at the end of the war would be considered granted. The reality that Robb succeeded in uniting the northern and riverlords was a factor of considerations. She had to thank the lowborn knight who acted as Stannis’s Hand though; the white haired man with sleepy eyes was the one who give Stannis a second opinion, to see the bigger picture, that finally made Stannis and Catelyn reached an agreement.

Catelyn had heard of Robb’s plan to bring Dorne to their side through the Mountain’s head. That is not impossible, come to think about it. Dorne has long held their grudge in silence of the brutal murders of Elia Martell and her children. _Maybe they stood a chance to win this war,_ she thought, welcoming a slight hope and courage.

Finally when Robb dismissed the lords (and Lady Mormont) to their rest on the eve of battle, Catelyn rose to meet his son at the table. He is still hovering above the map, his eyes furrowed as if trying to find flaw in his plan.

“Robb,” she called softly and her eldest son looked up.

“Mother, I thought I’ve send you to rest.” he said.

“Is there any news about Arya?”

When Robb told her that the Lannisters lost Arya the day they murdered Ned, her heart raged with fear of Arya’s fate. But she knew Arya; how wild and smart her little girl was, and a glimmer of hope overcome her fear. Robb had secretly sent some of his trusted knights to look for his little sister. They did this quietly so that the Lannisters were not suspicious that they already knew the Queen regent lost Arya.

“Ravens came bearing news about the war, but no, still no Arya.”

“There’s outlaws roaming the riverlands to westerlands.” Catelyn said. “If they caught Arya…”

“Arya is smart, mother. Even if they caught her, their chances are better if they bring her to us rather than to Joffrey or the Queen regent.”

“You’re right, Robb.” she sighed. “I am so worried of her, alone out there…” she trailed off before her tears fall. “I’ve never told you that I’m very proud of you.” she said, trying to be strong. _She must, for Robb’s sake. For all of them._

Robb looked surprised.

“Your father would be too, if he had the chance to see you now.”

“Thank you, mother. We will find Arya and take Sansa home.”

_You grew too fast, my son, it seemed like only yesterday they pulled you out of my womb._

“Be safe tomorrow, Robb.”  

“I will see you in Harrenhall, mother.”

“Yes, you must.” she said, planting a kiss on her son’s cheek before leaving his chamber.

Hours have passed, the sky was already dark when she slipped out from the Lord’s residence tower and into the castle’s yard. Men shouting orders as they prepared to march, horses were brushed and saddled by stables boys. She walked passed men honing their swords and put up her hood to conceal her auburn hair.

Her son is blood of the north who worshipped the old God. She’d need to pray in the Godswood for her son’s safety. The old God will hear her prayer and keep him safe and whole until they meet again. Some of the northern men might seek the weirwood too before they march, so she better not wasting more time.

The noise began to dwindle as she walked to the abandoned part of the castle that housed the only weirwood tree left in the riverlands. To her surprise, she saw three men already stood in the Godswood entrance.

“Ser Patrek?” she recognized one of them as Robb’s highborn battle companions.

The young man bowed at her. “Good evening, Lady Stark. I hear you’ve come back from the Vale, my lady.”

“Yes, ser, just this morning. I didn’t see you in Robb’s council earlier?” she asked the knight.

“Ah, yes, my lady. The King has ordered me to guard Princess Myrcella.”

“Princess Myrcella, is that her in the Godswood?”

Patrek Mallister nodded, the same awe as her. “Yes, my lady. Been in there for hours.”

She did find Princess Myrcella kneeling in front of the laughing tree, almost like praying. She didn’t try to hide her presence and soon the southron princess saw her. The girl’s green eyes widened at sight of Catelyn and she hurriedly stood and curtsied.

“Lady Stark, I didn’t see you.” she said shyly.

“Of course you didn’t see me, Princess, you have your back towards the entrance.” she didn’t mean to reply so harshly but the girl didn’t seem to mind.

Catelyn took a place beside her and she retreated politely to make room for her in front of the tree.

“Have you been praying?”

She blushed. “Yes, my lady. I heard the King marched on the morrow. And they are busy preparing for… battle.” she sounded so fragile and for a moment it reminded her of her own children, young and scared and scattered across the continent.

Catelyn nodded, though she still couldn’t hide her curiosity. “I thought you Lannisters worshipped faith of the seven?”

Myrcella seemed hesitant upon replying. “The King is of the north, my lady.”

 _She prayed for Robb,_ she realized in disbelief.

“Are you going to ride with him, my lady?” she looked at her like some lost child and her heart ached— _if those eyes were blue, I’d mistaken her as Sansa,_ she bitterly thought. _Or if her hair was dark she’d be like my Arya…_

“Yes. Do you know what expected of you?”

“Ser Patrek said the King has ordered me to stay in Riverrun.”

“That is right.”

She turned to face the weirwood tree. The white bark shone under the moonlight and its blood-red leaves whistled in the wind. The face carved on the tree’s bark was smiling at her, teasing the southron blood in her. Catelyn has never feel ease in the Godswood, as she feels like the old Gods knew she is not daughter of the north.

 _But my son is,_ she prayed. _My son is the blood of the first men, and of the north._

_If you hear me, please… I beg you, protect my son, Robb. Bestowed strength and wisdom upon him. Protect Sansa and Arya for me. Protect Bran and Rickon, I beg you…_

_Let Robb bring back my daughters._

The atmosphere was so quiet at the Godswood, untouched by the hubbub of people preparing for battle. Catelyn almost forgot the presence of other people nearby. When she finished praying she saw Princess Myrcella sitting not far from her, on a giant root that stretched out from the mossy soil.

“We better get back to the castle now, Princess.” she said.

“Lady Stark, if I may…” Myrcella said reluctantly. her voice soft and almost unheard.

“Yes?”

The girl took out a small package from behind her coat and handed it to Catelyn.

“I might not able to see the King before he goes to battle, my lady.” she said as Catelyn took the package from her. “If it pleases you, to please give this to him. I will pray for his safe return, and for this war to end soon.”

Catelyn opened the package and soon a handkerchief lay in her hand. She had to peered through the Godswood dimness to pay attention to the embroidery details, which was a howling grey wolf in exquisite detail. The girl had also embroidered a lion on the other side of the wolf, its golden mane met the wolf’s grey in beautiful burst of white, brown and yellow.

“I am sorry for your loss, my lady,” the girl continued as Catelyn stared blankly at the handkerchief.  “Lord Stark was a good man. I wish things would turn out differently.”

“You naive girl. Do you honestly think a piece of cloth with our sigil and yours would mend what was already broken? Your brother murdered my husband. Your mother held my daughter hostage. Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all high lords of Westeros, announcing Joffrey is neither a true King nor a true Baratheon. Do you know what it makes you?” her words turns out angrier and more bitter than she intended.

Myrcella stared at her, clearly shocked and speechless, and Catelyn had to squeezed the handkerchief to keep herself from throwing it to the ground.

“You should pray for your own family, because when this ended, Gods help them for mercy.”

She did it. She managed to tear the little girl’s feelings in front of her.

 _She is a Lannister,_ she reminded herself. _She is enemy._

But still, as the girl finally recollected herself and curtsied even gracefully though she noticed her eyes gleaming with tears, Catelyn feel ashamed. She should not berated the girl for her family’s sins.

Catelyn clutched the handkerchief in her hand tightly as she made her way back to the castle. Part of her wants to throw the delicate needlework into the hearth, but a small voice inside her forbid for doing it. She stood alone in the spiral staircase leading to her and Robb’s chambers in the Lord’s tower. The flame from torches hanging on the stone walls gave enough light when she opened her palm to observe the handkerchief again, the neatness of the stitches reminded her of her own daughter, another hostage.

She finally settled her heart and continued towards her chamber, closing the door behind her slowly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always loved the idea of Robb working together with Stannis (yeah yeah though Book!Stannis would have none of "king in the north" thingy, buuuuut... lol)  
> Anyways...  
> Sorry I am not a chatter and rarely write notes (T_T)  
> I hope you enjoy this one. Thank you for your time!!  
> Seven blessings,  
> xx


	7. Chapter 7

**MYRCELLA**

She saw Robb Stark and his bannermen riding out of the castle gate.

She has been laying restless in bed, unable to sleep as the voices from the courtyard echoed loudly. The room where she was put is located in highest tower and has a wide window overlooking Riverrun’s gate. The darkness of the night was split by torches illuminating the sky, and from afar Myrcella could see Robb Stark on his black destrier. Grey Wind was never far from his master’s side.

Her eyes followed the beast and before Robb kicked his destrier to a gallop, Grey Wind looked up to her direction. _Please protect him,_ she whispered. For a moment she thought the direwolf understands. There have been enough bloodshed from house Stark and she remembers clearly how hatred spilled from Lady Catelyn’s eyes everytime the older woman laid eyes on her. Soldiers marched out the gate, so many it seemed it won’t finished until the sun rises. Their temporary barracks outside the castle had been dismantled, its residents marched to follow their respective commanders.

Among them was her uncle, chained and locked inside a horse-drawn carriage. When ser Patrek informed her that Robb Stark was taking Jaime Lannister with him, she was devastated.

 _“What are they going to do with him? Are they going to kill him?”_ she asked, scared with the answer.

_“Well no, I think, Princess. His Grace have said you and the Kingslayer are more valuable alive.”_

She gave in to sleep just before the sun rises and woke up when two women put her breakfast tray on the table, startling her.

“Good morning.” she said.

As usual they paid her no attention. After breaking her fast, another woman came in to help her clean herself and get dressed. Turns out the woman was the seamstress that Robb had mentioned, who came to measure her body. She did not expect Robb to be serious about his promise to make her new clothes, considering he had been very kind to her. He doesn’t beat her, even going so far protecting her from his bannermen. He doesn't chained or starved her, either. What more she could expect? Obviously not new clothes from him.

She meets maester Vyman in his chamber regularly, an activity Robb himself permitted. The old maester has been kind enough to trusts her with giving medical aid that every day she’d be found contently in the maester’s tower. She gladly tended the sick and wounded, but wouldn’t mind if given another duties. It takes her mind off any intrusive thoughts about the war, her family, and mostly off Robb Stark.

They sit across the table with parchments, bottles of ink and writing quills scattered around them. That morning she was assigned to help make new copies of many old scrolls and manuscripts before they completely rotted away, the informations lost forever. The stack of old scrolls sent dust and decomposing smell whenever she turned a page. Yet she contently copies every word onto fresh parchments, drowning in history of the First Men and the Andals, riches of Qarth, and the Order of The Maesters (she couldn’t imagine how much time, books, and practice every apprentices had to passed in forging a maester’s chain).

It was when she began to copy folklore stories, that the movement of her hand began to slow down until she stopped completely. Not because she was tired, even though she had writing for hours now, but because the story she read was so interesting. She did not remember whether her mother or her septa ever told her about it as a child. Apparently not, because she did not remember she had ever known the story of Sultan the loyal dog, or the story of The Goose That Laid Golden Egg.

“Sees something interesting, Princess?” maester Vyman looked at her questioningly, a fatherly smile on his thin lips.

“I am sorry, maester, I got carried away.”

The maester chuckled. “Well, I can see that. What are you writing just now?”

“Folklores, maester.”

“Ah, yes, I remembered that was one of the late Lord Tully’s daughters favorite. Lysa’s, if my old mind is not mistaken. Lady Arryn now.”

The weather was nice and though she prefers an open window but Maester Vyman likes to close his chamber’s windows, so the wind won’t knocked off his precious bottles and vials. The maester’s room was filled with hundreds of it, arranged neatly on wooden shelves. His thin and sharp writing marks each bottles and the room always smelled of sage and salt. When she asked about those fragrance plantation, he told her about medicinal plants and herbs that grows in Riverrun’s garden, even in the Godswood; echinacea, meadowsweet, wild bergamot, thyme… all strange but beautiful to her. Here and there she’d look up from the book she copied and asks more questions. The maester seemed pleased with it.

Sometimes when ravens came she paid close attention to maester Vyman’s reaction, even though the man never said anything to her, hoping a slight expression would tell her what might written in the brown parchment. After every reading the maester neatly fold the paper and put it in a box, tucked away inside a locked drawer. She was tempted to ask for any news from the battlefield but didn’t dare. _They’d tell her, if anything big happens, right?_

After helping the maester, she visit the sept to pray for her family and spending the rest of the afternoon in the Godswood. Its beautiful forgotten little garden and the stillness calms her somehow.

She loves sewing in the Godswood which always bright and airy, a welcome change of her dim stone walls. By the third time she sat on the giant root to sew, she already knew the surroundings; tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across the pathway, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air spicy with the scent of flowers that grow on the mossy ground. Buttercup flowers is her favorite among all. She never noticed it before, but after Robb gave the flower to her she paid more attention to the yellow bud.

Hours became days and days changed to weeks... Even ser Patrek, her most friendly guardian, never tell her any news from the battlefield nor the south. She understands they kept her in the blind, a hostage provided with comfort and hospitality, and she should be grateful for it. Yet her heart ached for any news about her family and—a tiny part of it—about Robb Stark.

 _Robb Stark,_ she said his name quietly to herself as she sew.

She should not forget who he is. Even during their brief time with each other and she thinks she somehow sees the young man beneath his kingly persona, it won’t matter in the end. Whoever wins the War of the Five Kings would not wiped clean all the bloodshed between their families. Lady Catelyn is right, very right... How foolish of her trying to believe what is not supposed to happen.

 _He is a Stark,_ she reminded herself every time she sat on the giant root, sewing or just reading a book. Yet her hand continued to embroider a lone wolf figure. She uses black, grey and white for its fur, and yellow for his eyes. _Grey Wolf,_ she said to herself. It was a warm afternoon. Walton and her other guards stood silently at the entrance, out within earshot.

“Robb Stark,” she whispered his name, smiling faintly to the mossy ground and buttercups flowers that grew wildly on the soil. She took a yellow thread and began to embroider a buttercup flower.

 _“Yellow, like you,”_ he had said.

She took a mental note to tell him a story she read about buttercup flowers.

_Will he like it? Or will he think I am foolish? He is leading an army, and here I am stupidly wanted to tell him the ridiculous story I found in old scrolls._

_No, I shouldn’t thinking about you,_ Myrcella shook her head.

But his name sounds good when she says it, even though quietly like telling a secret. And she admitted she likes thinking about him. Something flutters in her belly whenever she recalled his bright blue eyes, and how his thick eyebrows furrows in thoughts just a second before he replied anything.

“Robb,” she whispered again, after glancing nervously to the entrance. Walton and her guards are talking among themselves, paying her no attention. She giggled.

 _No, he is Robb Stark,_ a voice in her head reminded her. _He is riding south to sack King’s Landing and kill your brother. Robb Stark is enemy._

Her fingers trembled as she embroidered. Her back began to hurt but indeed she hadn’t felt good these past few days. Maybe it's time to call it a day and retreated to her chamber. Myrcella gathered her needles and her threads, putting them into a basket and stood up. Suddenly a deep pain pierced her waist and abdomen, so intense and so sudden that she shook and had to hold to a weirwood branch to stopped her from falling, groaning. She heard Walton’s approaching boots stepping on dried twigs.

“What is it, girl?” he barked, his sword at hand. The man had never bothered to call her with titles, and since the incident with Lord Karstark he became easily upset.

“Nothing, ser.” she replied, hand on her stomach. “Just… I think I am not feeling good.”

“I am not a knight,” he said gruffly and sheathed his sword, frowning at her stomach. “I better take you to the maester, then. Couldn’t risk you die under my supervision.” he grumbled.

She smiled at his reply. “I knew someone who would say such thing.”

“What? Taking you to a maester?” Walton took her arm gently and ushered her from the Godswood. Three Tully guards followed them silently.

“No, but someone who said that he was not a knight.”

“I am lowborn, girl. Father was a farmer. Nothing like you or other m’lords and ladies.” he rolled his eyes, mocking.

She smiled, “Yes, you do sounds like him.”

Walton looked irritated. “Fine then, who is this man? Do I know him, eh?”

“He is my brother’s sworn shield. He is called The Hound.”

“Oh, him?” Walton was not impressed. “Aye, heard about him. And his monster of brother. The King is after that mad dog.”

“Is there any news from the war, ser?” finally the question came out of her mouth.

Walton glanced uneasily behind them, to the three Tully guards walking just two foot away. He shook his head and they climbed the maester’s tower in silence. Every step she took sent uncomfortable pain to her back and her stomach, and she grimaced. Walton knocked at the oak door, announcing their presence to the maester.

Maester Vyman looked up from a letter he wrote and smiled at them.

“Good afternoon, Princess Myrcella. I didn’t expect to see you so soon after our session. Can I be of help?”

“She’s got stomach bug.” Walton answered for her.

“Are you?” maester Vyman raised his eyebrow. He told her to lay down as he checked her pulse. “You do look a bit pale, Princess. Is your back hurts?”

“It is.”

“Your lower back?” he pressed gently on her stomach and she cringed.

“Yes.”

“Has this cramping upset you in the past few days?”

“Yes…”

“Princess, how old are you?”

“I am fourteen, maester Vyman.”

“Ah.” The maester mumbled to himself as he rose to find something in his drawer.

“She won’t die, right?” asked Walton.

“Oh Walton, you’re very funny,” the maester took a jar of dried leaves. He pinched a little, put it in a chalice and poured hot water from a kettle above the fireplace. Before he handed the chalice to Myrcella, he poured milk. “Here, Princess. Carefull, its hot.”

“It won’t look good on me if she dies under my protection.” Walton insisted.

“No, Walton, she won’t die.” maester Vyman huffed. “Drink, Princess, it will help soothe your upset stomach.”

She obediently took a sip, then another, and it sends warm into her stomach. She feels instantly better though her back makes her want to lie down again. Once she finished the drink maester Vyman patted her shoulder.

“You will be okay now, Princess. Rest earlier tonight. If the cramps come again you know where to find me.”

“It is not life threatening, isn’t it?” Walton asked again.

“No, Walton, it is not.” maester Vyman answered patiently before ushering them from his chamber. “See you on the morrow, Princess. I’ve got more manuscripts for us to copy.”

“Thank you, maester.”

The sun has not really sets, but she decided to retreat to her chamber. Along the way Walton glanced at her, as if he made sure she would not fall dead on the cobblestone.

“Thank you, ser, for taking me to maester Vyman.” she said as they ascended the stairs to her chamber.

“Name is Walton, girl, not some sers. I’d be one when the Young Wolf or his knights knighted me. Which I hope would be soon.” he said. “Of course it only happens if I keep you alive.”

“All right, then, uh, Walton.” she said, not sure if it was polite enough to call him by his name. He seemed quite old with his messy brown beard, a look most northerner have. Walton has a face like he is thinking hard which makes him a bit unattractive. She wonders if the man ever smiled in his life. If he did, he’d look nicer.

Walton shrugged nonchalantly, “I am answering to the King if anything happens to you.”

“You seemed very fond of him.”

He scoffed. “All of us do, girl, and to his father before him, before you Lannisters chopped off his head.”

 _That again,_ her heart sank. _Everyone wants to remind her of her family’s crime._

Walton left her in her chamber as that night four Tully household guard stood in front of her door. Sleep has not been good to her and she shuddered on her bed as the cramps revisits. It become near unbearable near midnight and she curled up on her bed; a wolf howls in the distance.

She was dreaming of a tall knight in grey armor and fur surcoat, who carries an oak shield decorated with a direwolf’s head. The knight unsheathed his greatsword. It was wide across a man’s hand, the valyrian steel blade has a dark and smokey appearance. She couldn’t see his face. Danger radiance from the knight as he advanced to her.

 _“I am so sorry,”_ she heard herself cried. _“I am so sorry,”_

The knight came at her, the iron crown on his auburn head glistered with blood. She screamed as the knight raised his hand and swung his sword. A piercing pain stab her stomach where the tip of the sword was lodged, and something warm ran down her legs.

She woke up trembling to sweet metallic scent caught her nostrils. As she saw the blood she frantically jumped from her bed and hugged herself tightly, thinking the knight had finally managed to hurt her. It was then when her toe hit the wooden bedframe and she yelped in pain, that she realized the blood was not from her severed torso.

It was just her moonblood.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**CATELYN**

The ride to Harrenhall has been slow. Not all men seated on horse and they couldn’t travel as fast as they wanted. But it shouldn’t be long before they reach their destination. Ser Rodrik said they’d reach Harrenhall in three more days, weather is good and there should be no obstacles in their way. Catelyn hoped the man was right. They had been on the road for three days now, two hundred horses (Robb took most of their riders) and more than seven thousands men-at-arms. There’s a reason why Robb and Stannis agreed to combined their forces at Harrenhall. It is because the old burned castle is the biggest in Westeros and in good direction to King’s Landing. Tywin Lannister and his army currently take hold of the castle, but Robb and Stannis agreed to attack and scattered the old lion’s forces. 

A raven found them yesterday and Lady Maege Mormont announced Stannis’s forces are preparing to march in Maidenpool. Maege is a short, stout, grey-haired woman and a fierce warrior, whom Robb trusts to led them to Harrenhall and to Stannis. The she-bear dresses in patched ringmail and her bellowing voice barked orders to her men as they reached the middle of high ground to make camp. Scouts were dispatched and posts and guards were placed before they settled the night. Robb trusts his vassals and it was a good thing, to Catelyn’s relief. 

Along the way she sew a prayer wheel; this is the third time she made it. Once, she made it for Jon Snow, Ned’s natural son when the lad was barely ten and laying sick of smallpox. The second time, she made it for Bran after he fell from a tower that claimed his legs. Now she made it with Robb, Sansa and Arya in her mind. 

She is afraid for Robb, fighting in battle against the Mountain, maybe at this very moment. She is crying for Sansa, beaten and humiliated by the man her daughter was betrothed to. She is in constant worry for Arya, lost and never heard of.

_ Please let us come home and forget this horror,  _ she whispered her prayer as she sew, sometimes stopped briefly to get rid of the tears dripping on her cheeks. Bran and Rickon, too, deep in her thoughts. Her babies are alone in Winterfell and the first thing she’d do after she made sure Robb doesn’t need her anymore is to ride hard for Winterfell.

Their supper was as simple as a bowl of stew and mead. Afterwards she joined ser Rodrik, Maege Mormont and other lords in the commander’s tent to discuss the situation. They’d wait until their scout comes back with any information about Harrenhall and to send message to Stannis that they’re ready. The riverlords knew well their land and it should be their advantage. The place they made camp was well hidden by rows of trees and their men stood guard in three. Maege Mormont will lure the old lion from Harrenhall and when Tywin is busy dealing with them, Robb would sneak in the rear to break straight into Harrenhall. They’d just bid their time.

_ They have been lucky so far, so help us Gods to keep it,  _ Catelyn thought as she sat beside ser Rodrik, the prayer wheel at hand. She almost finished it.

Their camp was dark; Maege Mormont doesn’t allowed much torches or bonfires. They were forced to squeeze shoulder to shoulders around a small bonfire every twenty meters. Darkness protects them from lurking eyes. If they cannot see the enemy, it is better if the enemy has difficulty spotting them too. Also there were outlaws for them to be wary. Though small chance those outlaws would dare approaching an army. 

_ What was it the Esossi say? That the night is dark, and full of terrors…  _ Catelyn mused as she clutched her prayer wheel.  _ How true was that? _

“You should rest, my lady.” ser Rodrik’s kind voice pulled her from her reverie. They are standing in front of her tent. “I will place more guards in front of your tent for the night.”

“Thank you, ser Rodrik, and you too.” she replied, casting the older man a thankful smile.

She lit a candle inside her tent but the light too small to keep darkness at bay. At least she didn’t alone with her mind in pure dark. In the distance she thought she heard wolves howling, but she was not worried. Wolf— _ direwolf, even _ —is the protector and the sigil of house Stark. Wolves won’t hurt them. They are pack. 

It took three days later when the first scout came back bearing news that Tywin Lannister has amassed forty thousand men-at-arms at Harrenhall. He saw they seemed preparing to march, but saw nothing further as he had to fight and thankfully killed two Lannister scouts on his way back. Upon hearing the report, Lady Mormont placed archers on each posts and checkpoints, if there were spies or scouts coming too close. They cannot risk Tywin know they are planning to take Harrenhall. And besides, Tywin’s forty thousand men-at-arms are just too many. 

Tension felt thick among the men, preparing for the worst. Robb has not sent any raven and neither does Stannis. They are put on hold, waiting, and waiting… Until the morning when she finally finished her prayer wheel and put it near her sleeping pallet, that ser Rodrik found her in the tent. 

“Yes?” she asked, trying to push back worst thoughts.

“A message came today, my lady.”

She hurriedly went with him to the commander’s tent, where Maege Mormont and several other lords already waiting.

“Message from the King.”

“Which King?”  _ There’s too many Kings right now. _

Maege smiled. “ _ Our  _ King.” and Catelyn let out a breath. Mage handed her the small parchment.

_ Passed the fork and cuts the lion’s claws. We sent most of livestocks to the Fish in the trident. The old lion will return to its den to protect the rest of the house. _

“What—,” Catelyn was dumbfounded, reading the message. Robb’s handwriting are remarkably strong, written with symmetrical lines. It didn’t convey much information for fearing being intercept by the enemy.

“They are plundering the westerlands that was left open.” Maege explained to her. “Killed most Lannisters and captured livestock and sent the cattles back to Riverrun. I am sure the King is in attempt to lure Tywin Lannister away from Harrenhall and leave King’s Landing open for an attack.”

A guard walked into the tent, apologising. “M’ladies, m’lords,” he huffed. “A scout has returned.”

“Bring him in.”

The skinny man entered the tent, clearly rode hard all night long to reached them in time. “They are moving.” he even still trying to catch his breath. “The Lannister host moved from Harrenhal in an attempt to make it to the Westerlands.” 

“It seems that His Grace’s attack on their land made Tywin move away from the castle.” Maege pondered. “My lords, tell the troops to get ready. This is the signal we’ve been waiting for. Send riders first, to make sure our path is clear. How many men-at-arms did you see coming out of Harrenhall?”

The scout looked nervous. “Thirty thousand, milady. At least.”

“We need to send message to Stannis, and fast.” 

“Lady Mormont, what do you think?” Catelyn asked anxiously.

“We are approaching King’s Landing, my lady, and if Stannis want to sit on that iron throne,” the she-bear huffed, “he better get hurry, time is our biggest enemy right now. I’ve heard news that Renly’s troops is in Bitterbridge already.”

“That boy is playing King,” Catelyn reminisced her encountered with Renly. A young man of twenty and one, handsome and jovial, Renly is loved by many, men and women alike. That is the only traits he has that make him believe he’d be a good king, better than Stannis and Joffrey. The last time she saw Renly was when she visited Ned in King’s Landing. Renly was grand and dressed so lordly even she could see the man was not build for war. Put a sword in his hand and Catelyn sure he’d break. 

“What about Robb?” she asked the she-bear. 

“He will know what to do, Lady Stark. Besides, the King’s order has been clear for us to march to Harrenhall. Which we will do so, on the morrow.”

“Do we have enough men?”

“I am sure we do. If the scout is correct, the Lannister forces are now split in two just like what he hoped for.” Maege is smiling ear to ear. “Your son is a very good tactician.”

“And very lucky, I must admit,” Catelyn bowed her head humbly at the she-bear praise, “yet I dreaded his position, my lady. Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster. And not many people can keep their balance on it, I’m afraid.” 

_ That’s why I prayed every night, for the old God and the new to protect Robb.  _

Victory after victories cemented Robb’s ways in front of his followers, but his enemies might grow bolder to cast him down. Catelyn shuddered at the thought; is she being paranoid, or is it her instinct trying to tell her something? Robb rode into war surrounded by loyal bannermen and thirty highborn knights at his side, acting as his unwritten Kingsguard. He should be safe… he should be.

Another raven found them near dusk. 

_ Dark wings, dark words,  _ Ned once whispered to her. 

A king was dead, and to her relief (she hates herself for feeling it because she knew the man was actually a good one and should not have died so soon) it was not Robb, or Stannis. 

It was Renly Baratheon.

“What will happen, then?” Lord Mooton asked.

“I will ride to Bitterbridge.” Catelyn offered.

“But—,”

“Those lords and their armies are now leaderless. They cannot return their fealty to the iron throne. They are the stormlands’ bannermen. Swore an oath to Lord of Storm’s End whose name is Baratheon. Stannis is the only Baratheon left.”

Catelyn knew it is the only right thing to do. Thousands of men-at-arms to Stannis and Robb’s side is a very appealing idea. She hates herself more for silently thanking the old Gods and the new for Renly’s sudden and mysterious death.

“The King’s order was clear—,”

“Lady Mormont,” Catelyn cuts in. “please. I knew what my son had ordered us to do. Just by this morning you reminded me of it. But now I see opportunity to bring more men to our cause. I shall ride to Bitterbridge on the first light to meet Renly’s bannermen.”

“I cannot send many men with you, Lady Stark.”

“Ser Rodrik and twenty good men of my house will suffice. It won’t take long to reach Bitterbridge from here, my lady.”

“You’ll be too close to King’s Landing.” Maege seemed hesitant.

Catelyn smiled. “I will do whatever it takes to take my son win this war.”

A cruel dusk wakes Catelyn from sweet dreams of happy family life. She is wary of riding and being strong, but she cannot allow herself to be weak. Not today, and not this time. And so she ride at the first light, wind blows cold on her face and she shivered despite the heavy cloak she wore. She doesn’t know what awaits her in Bitterbridge but she knew she have to seek them. Her party includes some of best Winterfell men and five lordlings; ser Wendel, ser Perwyn Frey, Lucas Blackwood and Robin Flint, to add weight and honor to her negotiations with Storm End’s vassals.

Raven was dispatched to Stannis, informing of her travel to Bitterbridge. It was a castle in the Reach, controlled by Tyrells of Highgarden. Renly was married to Lord Tyrell’s daughter, gaining military advantage. 

It took Catelyn almost four days of heavy riding and when she finally reached a windmill where the roseroad crosses the Mander, a mounted man with twenty men who later introduced himself as ser Colen of Greenpools intercepted her. The man seemed wary of her and almost showing no welcome gesture. Yet for the sake of the King in the North’s banner and pure curiosity, he led them to what was left to Renly’s camp. It was immense, though Catelyn saw nearly half of the men already departed to their respective Lord’s castles. 

She didn’t see any Tyrell’s banners.

“What was left of us.” ser Colen admitted. “We’re leaving to our land when we saw you approaching… Most of us were gone now, and the Tyrells… well, they bent the knee to the iron throne, now.”

_ To the Lannisters,  _ Catelyn thought, afraid she might came too late.

“What happened to King Renly, ser?” Catelyn asked, knowing that if she uses the right word to address the late Renly Baratheon, his men at least won’t be offended. They dismounted at the center of the camp where what was left of Renly’s royal tent erected.

“Assassin, my lady.” he almost looked ashamed. “Some believed it was sent by the Lannisters, though we didn’t capture him. Slit the King’s throat inside his tent and slaying two of his Rainbow guards.” ser Colen shook his head in disbelief. “The Tyrells took lady Margaery and left last night, to King’s Landing to bend the knee. Only the Fossoways and the Florents remains in the Reach.”

“Ser, I will need to speak to these Lords, in the name of Robb Stark the King in The North and Stannis Baratheon, the rightful king of the Iron Throne.” Catelyn herself hear her voice tensed. “We don’t have enough time. If you will kindly enough to assembled these Lords and Ladies of what was left from King Renly’s army, I’d be very grateful.”

Ser Colen looked at her for a moment but then nodded his head, to Catelyn’s relief. Less than an hour later Catelyn joined ser Colen in the royal tent, looking at uneasy faces of Fossoways, Florents, Conningtons, Carrols, Hastys, Gowers, and many others. They are leaderless now— _ kingless, even,  _ Catelyn wondered—and have not declared to neither side since Renly’s death. She realized most of Storm End’s vassals were angry at the possibility of Renly being killed by Joffrey. They did not want to swear allegiance to the iron throne. Once Catelyn reminded them of the last Baratheon in Maidenpool, ready to strike the Lannisters to take the throne, she gained favor almost immediately from them. Stannis won’t be happy but he will thank her nonetheless for bringing in more men to his cause.

Two large houses of the Reach—the Fossoways and Florents—are not easily persuaded, though. Just when things were heated up, finally house Florents agreed to joined Stannis’ cause just because Stannis’ wife is a Florent. 

_ Why you didn’t think of it when you choose Renly’s side,  _ Catelyn thought but keep her tongue in check. 

Two ravens flew that night to find the King in the North somewhere in the westerlands, and another to find Stannis in Maidenpool. She waited until dawn comes and when its blue hues appeared in the dark sky, ser Perwyn Frey helped her mounted her mare. Trots turned to gallops as soon as they left the Mader, and soon they are into a vast savanna near the Blackwater Rush. Once they reached Stoney Sept they decided to make camp for two nights, regaining strength and honing their weapons. 

It was there when Grey Wind found their party. Catelyn breathe a sigh of relief upon seeing the beast, realizing Robb’s army must be less than a night ride from them. They stayed for another night waiting for Robb. 

“I told you to ride to Harrenhall.” Robb said, when on the third night Robb’s troops found their camp. 

“Good to see you, too. I bring more men.” Catelyn answered.

Robb couldn’t hide his smile. “I can see that.” 

They would hug each other if not eyes of Robb’s men staring at them. Tens of Storm End’s vassals standards flipping in the wind. Their Lords knelt upon seeing Robb and his giant direwolf, half afraid and half shock to witness such beast now almost as tall as a destrier. Even Catelyn realized her son grew taller in the past few weeks. He is now sporting a short, polite beard cropped close to the face, perfectly befitting the title of King in the North. 

Robb found her in her tent that night. “I need you to do something, mother.” he said, his voice low and she knew what he will asked of her. It is the only reason her son came to her unscarthed. 

“Robb, you know I will do whatever you asked me to.”

Four men came with Robb, carrying a large wooden box sealed with wax.

“What is inside the box?” 

_ Though she thinks she knew the answer. _

“The Mountain’s bones.” Robb answered. “Which I need you to deliver to Dorne, mother. I cannot trust anyone else but you.”

“I will do it.”

“I know you must be exhausted...”

“I said I will do it. Anything necessary for us to wipe clean every Lannisters from this world. And to get your sisters back.” Catelyn firmly replied.

“We are supposed to meet in Harrenhall, but your impromptu travel when you received Renly’s death makes us to meet earlier in here, mother.” 

“I hope you don’t regret it.”

“I don’t. Thank you, mother.”

“I will leave early on the morrow. Be safe, Robb.”

“And you, mother.”

Everything she did, she does so for her family. Like her house words;  _ Family. Duty. Honor.  _

Speaking of honor…

The Kingslayer was locked inside a barred cell on the back of a wagon. His neck, ankles and wrists are bound with rope and chains, to her satisfaction. Two men standing guard near the wagon and Catelyn couldn’t help but stares at the now dirty, skinny prisoner sat silently inside his cell. He used to be dashingly handsome, or so she remembered from his visit to Winterfell some years ago when King Robert asked Ned to be his Hand.

Jaime seemed aware to her stare because suddenly he looked up and a set of green eyes looking back at her defiantly. A smirk crossed his handsome face, which now full with dirty scraggy greying beard. 

“Going somewhere, my lady?” he called to her. 

Catelyn knew she better to walk along to her mare, yet her eyes fixated at him. 

“What? You’re now too honorable to speak to me? Now that you’re mother of a king.”

“Don’t speak of honor to me.” she almost spat, glaring at the Kingslayer with all hate she could muster. “You have no honor.”

“Oh, aye, I have.” he replied cheerfully as if he is not bound and chained and they were just talking casually in some lord’s great hall. “Honor. I defended my family. I only lay with one woman whom I love so dearly… but how about you, my lady, or your late husband? Isn’t it ironic the man they deemed honorable brought home a bastard? A reminder that your honorable husband fucked a whore.”

“Lady Stark. It is time to go.”

If not ser Rodrik’s firm tone behind her, she’d strangled the Kingslayer with his own guts.

“Where are you going, lady Stark? Dorne, perhaps?” Jaime called her again. “Sending those snakes some nice souvenirs? Are you looking at me to say goodbye?”

She could see bruises, old and new, scars that began to scab in the Kingslayer’s body. Even his left eye was swollen. The men have not treated him so well. 

“Did they beat you?” 

“Well, a man or two doesn’t seem to like me. That old lord Karstark, too.” 

“You killed two of his sons.”

“They were on my way to kill your son. Any knight would have done the same.”

“You are no knight. You have forsaken every vow you took.” she said coldly.

“Ah, so many vows. They make you swear and swear. Defend the King, obey the King, obey your father, protect the innocent, and defend the weak. But what if your father despises the King? What if the King massacres the innocent? It’s too much, lady Stark.” 

“You are a man with no honor, Kingslayer.”

“Kingslayer! And what a King he was! Here’s to Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, protector of the Realm, the last Targaryen, and to the sword I shoved in his back!” he began to laugh bitterly and choke on his own saliva, spitting the drool to his beard. 

“My… my niece… Myrcella,” he said after his laugh subsides. “are you going to trade her for your daughters?”

_ Your sister doesn’t have Arya,  _ she said to herself but managed to remain calm. 

“It is none of your concern, Kingslayer.”

“Do to me as you like, but don’t hurt her.”

“You seem so fond of your sister’s daughter.”

“She is my niece, what’d you say?” his chains rattle as he tried to move. “Like you, I also will do everything to keep my…  _ blood _ ... safe.”

“It is not my decision about your  _ daughter _ , Kingslayer. Yes, don’t you think Stannis will be silent knowing that Cersei’s children are yours?” she raised an eyebrow at the Kingslayer, who tried to jump at her but caught by the chain wrapped around his neck. He fell before he even could get more than an inch from where he was tied. Ser Rodrik and his guards unsheathed their swords in unison. “It is the King’s decision about her, and about you, as a matter of fact. If he wants to give your  _ daughter  _ to wolves or horses, that is none of my concern.”

“You!” he screamed. “I will kill you! And your son!” he spat and cursed but Catelyn already turned and walked towards her mare. She could hear the Kingslayer’s screams from behind her, his anger shook the iron bars he was tied to.

“The Kingslayer is not one to be messed with, Lady Stark,” ser Rodrik said softly as he helped her mount the mare. 

“I don’t, ser Rodrik. I only told him what he needed to hear.”

Her entourage mounted their horses and together they trotted from the camp. Two black horses pulled a wagon with the Mountain’s bones and inside Catelyn’s robe is a letter from the King in the North for the Prince of Dorne.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster, and not many people can keep their balance on it." quotes by Hunter S. Thompson, the founder of gonzo journalism movement.  
> \---  
> Used some dialogue from the series.  
> \---  
> Thank you for your time, i hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
> xx


	9. Chapter 9

**MYRCELLA**

“Where do dead men go when they die?”

Maester Vyman looked up from his parchment with a wonder look. “Well, the faith of the seven didn’t actually say, and obviously we never had the dead to tell the tale.” 

“So there is no afterlife, after death?”

Maester Vyman put down his quill with a smile. “If we do good deeds and keep our prayers close, you shouldn’t fear what surely coming for all of us, Princess.”

Myrcella smiled, “Of course, maester. I was just curious.”

“Curiosity is what fueled us to grow, Princess. Embrace it.”

They sat across each other, still making copies of old manuscripts. Now piles of dusty scrolls is getting low and Myrcella is optimistic they will finish it before the day is over. People who were injured and need stitches are now in good condition, and most who come are people with sore throats and flu. She couldn’t help much and maester Vyman forbade her to be in the infirmary, fearing her to contact any disease. He taught her a little about medicine and healing though.

“How about the old God?”

“The only religion that might have explicit believe in life after death is R’hllor, or known as the Lord of Light. That is a prominent God in Essos.” maester Vyman responded.

“The God of Light.” she said in awe. “I’ve heard about it from some knight with a flame sword in King’s Landing.”

“I am sure you do. But then, the religion itself is basically unknown in here. They believe after our death the soul leaves its body to… uh, the Maker, R’hllor itself, and so they preserved the physical body of the deceased. But the process is not for very common to be act upon.”

“How was it?”

“Well… a priest or priestess of R’hllor insert a hook through the nose to pull out the deceased’s brain. They also removed all internal organs but leave the heart inside. The body is then wash with spices and wine to keep further decay at bay.”

“And the deceased body will preserved?”

“It seemed so. Sometimes the bodies preserved so well it looks like they’re just sleeping.”

Myrcella’s eyes widened at the explanation. 

“By the way, how is your cramps, Princess?”

“Getting better, thank you, maester,” she blushed. A few days ago she asked for a potion to reduce discomfort due to her moonblood. This was the second time she had it, and she was embarrassed to remember how panicked it made her the first time… Her mother should be by her side in this situation, sharing experiences and giving womanly advices. She would even welcome Lady Catelyn’s presence, but she was alone. When the maids saw bloodstains on her bed and her nightgown, they looked at each other silently and took her to maester Vyman. 

By the second time her moonblood came it was not as frightening as the first time as she had prepared mentally (and technically). It still brought her cramps, though, which maester Vyman said was normal and expected.

She opened her mouth to ask more question when a raven squeaking noisily from behind a window, clawing on the glass to get in. Maester Vyman hurriedly opened the window and let the raven in. Tied on its leg was a small parchment and as soon as the message was untied the raven flew to the bird-stand. Myrcella took out a bag of corn to feed it.

“Direwolf.” maester Vyman muttered, breaking the seal to read the message.

“Was that from…” _Robb,_ she almost said, but hold her tongue mid sentence.

“From the Young Wolf,” maester Vyman confirmed as he read. “Hmmm. They have reached Harrenhall few nights ago.” he mumbled. “Light casualties, well that's good to know… Ah,” he stopped. Maester Vyman looked up to her and her heart pounded faster. The look on his face was not very happy, but a concern one. 

“Maester Vyman?” she asked.

“It’s your uncle,” he said, hesitate to tell. But she knew he had to. Something Robb’s written on the letter was meant for her.

_No. Please don’t. Gods, please don’t let him die._

“The King in the North won Battle of the Fords. He had reached Harrenhall and joined forces with your uncle, Stannis Baratheon… However,” he cleared his throat.

“Yes?” she asked, afraid.

“Jaime Lannister was injured. The King ordered you to ride for Harrenhall as soon as his message is received. I will need to inform Lord Tully.”

It was a blur; Edmure Tully consulted briefly with maester Vyman before telling the servants to pack her belongings (not that she has many). She left Riverrun that very day escorted by Walton, ser Patrek Mallister—who were happy to return to battlefield—and some household guards lent by the riverlords. One moment she contently sat in the maester’s chamber inhaling the sweet salty scent with fresh parchment under her palm, and a moment later she found herself settled behind ser Patrek’s back on his grey destrier. She was told that for the sake of safety they’d ride hard, stopping only once in High Heart to rest. 

High Heart is a very tall hill sacred to the Children of the Forest in the riverlands. Around its crown stands a ring of more than thirty weirwood stumps. The hill is considered a safe place due to its height, compared to the very flat surrounding land. It nearly impossible to be approached unseen and soon her entourage dismounted. She could sense the power of the place, eerily silent but comforting like the Riverrun’s forgotten Godswood. Walton never took his eyes of her, glaring and rolling his eyes whenever she tried to engage him in conversation. The man must have wanted his knighthood really bad, that he put up with her for so long. 

Even though her guards treated her decently, she was watched night and day. Before someone helped her dismount Walton always made sure to tied her wrists to his using a long rope. “Is that necessary?” she overheard ser Patrek asked Walton. 

“Aye.” Walton replied, glowering at her. “better than she try to escape when we sleep.”

The rope was long enough for her to wander five feet away from Walton to make water. She still felt violated somehow, relieving herself as Walton grumbled and tugging the rope from behind the bush, telling her to hurry up nonverbally. 

The trip to took them only two days—considering they rode their horses like mad men. When the slender figure of Harrenhall towers that had burned out hundreds of years ago began to loomed in the distance, she felt nervous. As the stories told Harrenhal is indeed a huge castle, the largest one in all Westeros. It looked bigger than the Red Keep itself but her mind might failed her as she began to forget the details of her home. Even when Harrenhall is already within sight her entourage refused to slow down before they breached into its safe perimeter.

She saw a flash of grey running next to ser Patrek’s horse and Myrella realized it was Grey Wind. The destrier shrieked but ser Patrek is a skilled rider he didn’t has difficulties maintaining his pace. She felt at ease looking at the direwolf who in two moons turn seemed to grow bigger. Its terrifying figure running so near to them, the orange sun shone on its fur. It was a magnificent sight.

Harrenhall outer post consists of trenches with pickets patrolling the perimeter. Robb also placed guards posts and hundreds of tents lined up in front of the castle to house thousands men-at-arms, the men parted to gave way to their galloping horses.

“Riders coming through!” 

Two sigils flutters in the wind; Stark’s direwolf and Baratheon’s crowned black stag. She noticed her uncle’s sigil now enclosed within fiery red heart of Lord of Light. 

“Ser Patrek, welcome to Harrenhall.” a squire, a servant and three stable boys are waiting for them in the yard. “As soon as the scout saw you approaching, the King has waiting. If you will follow me?”

Ser Patrek nodded, “And Princess Myrcella?”

“She will be escorted to her room, ser.”

“Very well, then.”

Myrcella was about to ask about her uncle when Ser Patrek excused himself and she was left with Walton and the servant girl. The girl bowed her head in respect. She is pretty, with brown hair she secured into a mangled bun, high cheekbones and full lips. She almost laugh when she caught Walton staring at the servant girl, his eyes almost fell from its sockets.

“Milady, my name is Pia. If it pleases milady, I am here to take you to your room.” Pia oddly covered her mouth as she spoke.

“Thank you, Pia.” She smiles.

Harrenhall has five towers of dizzying size, each one equally with monstrous curtain walls. The walls are incredibly thick, and she was put in the upper floor in the Tower of Dread. It was not a pleasant name.

”It’s okay, milady, it’s just a name.” Pia assured her upon seeing her reaction. “People would say ghosts of Harren and his sons roamed this castle, but no, milady. I’ve live my life in here and never saw any ghost.” she smiles reassuringly and Myrcella nodded, thankful for the friendly servant.

Pia opened a wooden door to her chamber which are built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans. It was huge and plain, as the rest of the castle who seemed too big to be handled properly. After making sure that she was attended properly by Pia and some other chambermaids, Walton took his leave to stand guard in front of her room. A wooden tub was brought in and Pia helped her discarded her cloak and her gown. It feels nice to soaked herself in clean warm water and Pia even washed and brushed her hair afterwards. It's been so long to have someone helped her with her golden curls which now had grown to her waist. She is used to its length now, despite her mother never lets her hair grew long past her chest. _What are you, a peasant that cannot afford a hairdresser?_ she could hear her teasing voice from the back of her head.

“I’ve never saw a hair so yellow like you, milady.” Pia remarked as she took a comb to brush her curls. “ _Lannister gold_ , they say. Now would you like a southern braid?”

“You can do it?” she was surprised. 

“Well I can try… would you?”

She thought for a moment and shook her head. “I’ve forgotten how I look with that heavy braid. I think I prefer the northern hairdo, if you can, as it is simpler and easier. No one braid my hair in Riverrun until you offered it. Thank you, Pia.”

“My pleasure, milady.”

Pia continued to brushed her hair until it shone before she made a half twist fishtail braid on each side of the younger girl’s temples, twisting it to the back of her head and secures it with hairpins. She let the rest of Myrcella’s hair hanging loosely. Afterwards Pia took out several dresses from the chest Walton carried into the room, containing Myrcella’s clothes.

She chose to wear a greenish-white gown made of soft fabric, long and loose. The fabric was simple, obviously not as fancy as what she used to wore in King’s Landing. She liked it though, preferred the practicality over luxury.

“I really like your hair, milady.” Pia sighed as she helped Myrcella into her gown, shifting the golden locks to Myrcella’s shoulder so she can tie the corset. “Just like your uncle, Jaime Lannister. Oooh I remembered perfectly when the old king gave him his cloak, he was so handsome in all white. I was a slip of a girl that time. Not that he is not handsome now, after what they did to him—,” 

“Did you see my uncle here?” Myrcella turned so fast it caught Pia unaware.

She saw the reason why the servant girl always covered her mouth whenever she speaks. Something, or someone, seemed had smashed at least five of her front teeth. The servant quickly covered her mouth again.

“Oh my Gods, Pia,” Myrcella gasped. 

Pia looked away, ashamed. 

“What happened? Are you… okay?” 

“I… I’m fine, milady… it just… I haven’t use people see me… like this…”

“Who did that to you?”

“The Mountain.” her voice a whisper and both girls shuddered at the name. “When your Grandfather took residence here and he brought that monstrous man.” 

“I am truly sorry…” guilt, anger and shame squeezes her heart every time she heard the atrocities of her Grandfather’s banner man. 

“No, milady. It was my fault. I was speaking when he wants silence. He hit me with his mailed fist. Almost broke my nose too, but thankfully not.” the servant look down.

“It was not a reason to assault you just because he can. I—I am truly sorry,”

Pia shook her head. “The King in the North has avenged me, milady. He made sure that beast won’t do harm anymore.” the servant smiled at the memory, forgetting to cover her mouth. “I—I hope I am  not a disappointment to you, milady? I always wanted to be a handmaid.”

Myrcella’s heart softens for the servant girl. Pia has every reason to hates her, she is a Lannister after all. Her Grandfather’s man brought Pia shame and pain, yet the servant still want to put her service on her willingly. 

“I am very happy to have you, Pia.”

They exchanged smiles and Myrcella remembered what Pia had mentioned earlier.

“You spoke of my uncle Jaime Lannister. Do you know where is he?”

“He is in other tower milady, near Qyburn’s chamber. He was feverish the day they bought him here.”

“Did you know what happen to him?” 

“Milady, I—I am not sure I am allowed to—,”

“Please tell me, Pia,” 

Glancing at the door and noticing they were alone in the big chamber, Pia let out a breath and stared at the floor, beaten, “I heard he tried to escape, milady. I think he made it, because Locke boasted how he caught the Kingslayer… and—,” she hesitate. “Ah, I think it’s better if you not hear this from me.”

_What did they do to him? Did they hurt him?_

The servant brought her food and a glass of mead, but Myrcella doesn't feel like eating. Apparently she had to wait to hear the news directly from Robb Stark, or someone who is willing to tell her what really happened. Hours later she finally got what she wanted when supper was cleared from her table. A knock was heard and Pia hurriedly opened the door to show Robb standing at the other side of it.

“Princess,” he said, as she curtsied. “I came to see if you have settled in your new room.”

“I have, Your Grace. Thank you.” she replied and she dared to look Robb Stark in the eye. His bright blue eyes that sometimes came to her dreams sending tingling feelings within her. He has the most beautiful eyes she ever laid eyes on which shone intensity, honesty, and gentleness. He appeared more lean and muscled under his jerkin, or was it just her imagination? His face is the kind that would stopped a maiden on her tracks—solemn and defined, hard yet gentle. Any woman would be lucky to be his Queen. 

And what did he say? That Lord Stark had tried to betrothed Robb to her, rather than Sansa to Joffrey. She imagined another life which such betrothal took place. His pale, thin lips framed by beard cropped close to the face kissed her under the shadow of a laughing tree as he cloaked her with his coat of protection...

_No. What was just I thinking?_

She had to avert her eyes from him, before it betrayed her mind. 

“May I know what happened to my uncle Jaime, please, Your Grace?” she meekly asked.

“Please take a seat.” Robb said, and as they settled down Pia moved around to pour them mead. After the servant filled their cups Robb nodded his thanks and dismissed her.

Myrcella waited patiently for Robb to continue.

“The Kingslayer tried to escape.” Robb finally said. “It happened after battle of the ford. We slain many Lannister men that day, sparing only one. Alton Lannister, if you knew him.”

She didn’t.

“Ser Alton’s mother is a lesser branch of Lannister. We didn’t have enough pen to held prisoners, and the night before we depart to Harrenhall he was put with the Kingslayer. It was a mistake.” Robb sighed apologetically or so she thought. “That night the Kingslayer beats him repeatedly with his shackles, killing ser Alton, to distract his guard into his cell.”

 _”No!”_ Myrcella gasped.

”He also killed the guard, strangled him to death, before escaping into the night. Lord Bolton’s hunters found him the next morning.”

Robb paused. Myrcella didn’t like where this going, especially Pia had mentioned Locke earlier. She decided to dislike that man.

“Can—can I see him?”

Robb exhales. “He is not in the best mood.”

Silence come between them as she processed his words. 

“Did you order Lord Bolton’s hunters to hurt him?” her voice trembled.

“No.” came his reply.

_But you didn’t tell them not to hurt him, either._

“When I sent for you, I thought the Kingslayer won’t make it. But then last night he overcame his fever and Qyburn said he’ll survive.”

_You were afraid you will not have any valuable hostage if he was dead._

“He lost his sword hand.”

The news startled her. Her uncle had been a passionate knight. He was the youngest to donned his Kingsguard cloak and Myrcella knew he took pride in it. People called him the Kingslayer but they didn’t know him like she does. 

Behind closed doors he’d tell Tommen and her stories about valor, knights and their maidens, favors and gallantry. Jaime indulged her to such stories and to her he is the epitome of knight in shining armor. When she asked him then why he killed the Mad King, his eyes had been shone with sadness.  _“My Princess,”_ he said that time, maybe when she was still a girl of seven or eight running to found him after she learnt how the court whispered _Kingslayer_ behind her beloved Uncle’s back. _“It was not a good story. You wouldn’t want to know it.”_

_“I want to. You are my knight, uncle. Why did they call you that?”_

_“If I trusts you with my secret, will you guard it truly?”_

_“With my honor.”_ she had replied solemnly and her uncle smiled.

_“Have you heard about Wildfire? The Mad King was obsessed with it.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“The Mad King loved to watch people burn, the way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. He burned lords he didn’t like. He burned Hands who disobeyed him. He burned anyone who was against him, and before long half of the country was against him. Aerys Targaryen saw traitors in every corner. So he had his pyromancer placed caches of wildfire all over the city, from the slums of Flea Bottom to beneath the Sept of Baelor. Under people’s houses, stables, taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. Rhaegar Targaryen has fallen in the Trident and my father_ — _your Grandfather_ — _arrived in the capital with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebel. Sadly, I knew him better than that. He’s never been one to pick the losing side and I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully but the King didn’t listen to me. So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. That was not something I was proud about. Once again, I came to the king, begging him to surrender. But…”_ she remembered he had been silent for a moment, searching for the right words. She sat quietly, transfixed to hear her uncle’s story. _“But he told me to bring my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer…_ ‘Burn them all’ _he said. I was asked to kill my own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, children burned alive. So I forsake my oath… to make sure that didn’t happen. Do you understand now?”_ She reached to his cheek then, tears streaming down her eyes upon the revelation. She had not tell a soul about it, though she despised every time she heard _Kingslayer_ was mentioned. Her beloved uncle is her hero, her true knight. He had lived with the shame for more than fifteen years and had his honor spat upon, when in fact he’d been a hero for preventing mass murder.

And now he lost his sword hand.

“You will be able to visit him on the morrow.” Robb’s voice pulled her from her reverie.

“Thank you Your Grace, for your generosity.”

He stood up and she followed suit, thinking that the Young Wolf was done talking to her. 

Robb studied her face for a moment. When his eyes slowly descended from her face to her neck, then looked at her from head to toe, Myrcella had to look away to hide her blush. It seemed like he was taking her in like she did when he entered her room. She was grateful his gaze didn’t linger in uncomfortable place.

“Do you like the dresses?” he asked, to her surprise.

“I do, Your Grace. Thank you.”

He smiled.

“I am glad you didn’t get hurt in battle, Your Grace. I prayed for your safe return.” she meant every word, not just to fill the silence between them.

“Is that so?”

“I know you are fighting for a good cause. First for your father, your siblings… then for your people.”

He exhales quietly. “Don’t we all?”

“My brother don’t.”

Robb never waived his eyes off her. “I am glad you seemed well, Princess. I heard what you did in Riverrun. Maester Vyman told me in his reports that you helped around a lot. You seem to like being a healer.” 

“Maybe I’ve decided to be one, someday.” she said wistfully. “Going to Citadel, forging my maester’s chains. Or build a small house where all people are welcome to seek shelter and medical aid.”

“Easier for the latter.” Robb acknowledged.

“You’re King. You should tell the Citadel to accept women, then.”

“I will try my best.” he bowed solemnly and she giggled. “If you were like your king brother, it’d also be easier, too.” Robb gave her a tired smile. “Good night, Princess. It is good to see you again.”

She chose not to pressed further what he meant. “Good night, Your Grace.”

He was already at the door, ready to yank it open when he stopped and turned his head to look at her from his shoulder. She waited for him to say something—anything. They stare at each other that felt like eternity and her breath quickens, before Robb finally opened the door and disappeared behind it.

 

When Walton escorted her the next morning to visit Jaime, the man lay in a big bed with his eyes staring at the ceiling. The room was dark and smelled of urine. Jaime blinked few times, trying to focus his gaze on her face when she called to him. 

“Are you well?” Jaime asked softly, strength has gone from his voice.

“Stop asking me that whenever I visited you.” she hushed him. His skin warm under her touch, sweat soaked his forehead. Myrcella took out a handkerchief and wiped Jaime’s face. “Are you in pain, uncle? Do you need milk of the poppy?”

“No, no poppies.” he hissed. 

“I have cleaned the infected flesh,” a strained croaked voice of old man was heard from across the room. A man revealed himself from the shadows. His thin frame was badly clothed under a black maester robe but he has a fatherly smile on his old face when he looked at her. Though the man wear a maester robe but he didn’t wear any chains. “I intended to amputate part of his arm, but he didn’t want me to. Strong man, and a suspicious one. Doesn’t want to drink a drop of poppies out of fear I’d still take his arm.”

“Who are you?” she inquired. “You are not a maester.”

The old man nodded. “Aye, child. My  name is Qyburn. I used to to be one, though. The Citadel stripped me of it.”

“How is he now?” she asked.

“He will live. I just changed his bandage. Now we just wait for the wound to dry.”

“Myrcella.” Jaime called, and she turned her attention to her uncle. Jaime raised his right arm and to her horror she saw no part of the wrist down. Only a stump, concealed under his long sleeve tunic.

“I will leave you two, then.” Qyburn walked towards the door. 

“What happened? They hurt you…”

“Doesn’t matter what they did to me.”

“They told me you were trying to escape…” Tears blurred her eyes as she caressed Jaime’s cheek. “Why?”

“Are we alone?” 

She looked around and nodded. “Yes.”

“They told me they’d hurt you.” he replied, shuddered at something he left unsaid. “I’ve to take you out of this place.” he hissed, trying to rise from the bed. His attempt failed miserably as he groaned in pain and fell back to the bed. There was a clinking sound and she noticed Jaime’s feet were chained to the bedposts.

“No, the King treat me well. I don’t want you to do something foolish, uncle.”

“It is only a matter of time, Myrcella…” Jaime sighed. “Either we escaped, or waited until the war is over—doesn’t matter which side won—if you stayed here, they’d hurt you for their last resort. This boy has been lucky,” Jaime laughed, a hoarse and bitter one. “with Renly dead and with the Mountain’s bones he’s trying to bring Dorne to Stannis.”

“Uncle Renly is dead?” she trembled.

“A pretender King, aye,”

“He was always been kind to me.” she said with sadness, recalling the youngest brother of king Robert. 

Jaime gripped her with his left hand. “Myrcella.” he whispered, dragging her to his chest. His haggard breath caught her ear. “Everyone here will try to hurt you to get to your family. Don’t let them. Can you find yourself something sharp?”

“Uncle Jaime—.”

His grip tightens. “Can you?” he asked urgently.

“A—a knife?”

“Or some sort. Anything sharp and small enough to conceal in your dress. Always bring it everywhere with you. We’re in the wolf’s den. I—I can’t protect you.” his voice filled with shame, looking at his stumped hand.

Myrcella cupped his uncle’s face that is now gaunt and pale.

“You always worried about me.” she tried to smile to soothe him but instead her words made Jaime pulled her closer. Fear emanating from his green eyes. The same eyes as Mother, and as her…

“They told me they’d rape you.” he suddenly whispered. “These northern… savages… they’d hurt you. Even that honorable Catelyn Stark said she didn’t care what they’d do to you.”

“Was that what make you trying to escape? To protect me?” emotion filled her throat.

“Aye, that what I tried to do, ever since you came into this world.” Jaime tried to laugh. “Your grandfather raised an army to pillage the riverlands because you are a Lannister. I will keep you safe because you are of my blood. Robb Stark killed the Mountain. He destroyed your grandfather’s army. He took Harrenhall. He will take Stannis to your brother.” he whispered hoarsely.

“The war that Joffrey started! He killed Lord Stark!” she snapped at the mention of her vile brother. “All of this won’t happening if Joffrey is not King. If only Tommen is King...”

“Aye, what a jape Gods have.”

“Robb treated me good, uncle. He is honorable. I don’t want you to do something that might hurt you further.”

“No. I am alive and drunk of sunlight.” he caressed her head with his left hand. Jaime loved her curls. “That Stark boy just hasn’t had the chance to hurt you, that’s all.”

“Robb is kind and he is fighting for his people…”

“Listen to me. Listen to me carefully.” he jerked her arm to him with surprising strength and she whimpered. Jaime releases her immediately. “These are people who want to see us hurt and they may use you to get to us. To your mother and your brother.”

“Uncle Jaime—,”

“After Harrenhal your grandfather will know this war is not something we’d won in battlefield.”

“What do you mean?”

The door cracked open before Jaime could answered. Walton stood by the door and she knew her time is up.

Jaime gently pulled her one last time to what she felt was a hug. “Remember what I’ve told you.” he whispered.

 

The only thing brought her peace was Harrenhal’s Godswood, though it no longer housed any weirwood tree. It is walled and spread twenty acres, located across the ward from where the Barracks Hall and the armory are. It has a small stream running through it. 

“What happened to the weirwood tree?” she asked Pia when she settled on a big stone by the stream. She turned her gaze to its skeletal branch, crooked and dark as charcoal in the white shafts of daylight.

“Aegon and his dragons.” Pia answered, looking at what used to be a three-thousand years old weirwood tree. “When he burned this castles hundred years ago, milady.” The servant stood a feet away, with Walton facing to the entrance. 

“What a pity.” she sighed. “Come sit with me, Pia.”

Pia looked surprised and she had to smile.

“No one talked to me in Riverrun. Well, except for maester Vyman and Walton.” she laughed when Walton rolled his eyes. They’d stuck in its sockets one day. “I am grateful for you. Come.”

They sat together on the stone, enjoying the warm sunshine. Plants grew close to one another, trees and and flowers alike. She easily spotted buttercups flowers grew wild among the grass, giving the garden bed a striking yellow dots on green field.

Unlike in Riverrun where she could roamed the castle as long as she was escorted by her gaolers, Harrenhall is just too massive to have her walking around. Walton was reluctant every time she left the Tower of Dread and there is no sept for her to pray for her family. The battle of Harrenhal had left its sept in ruin. The soldiers also roamed around the castle and everywhere she goes she saw unfriendly faces. Jaime’s warning made her shivered. Fortunately Pia was assigned to tend to her and she was thankful for her cheerful and kind spirit. It was very needed since there is no library and she missed maester Vyman dearly. 

They shares interest in needlework and Pia supplies her with more colorful threads. In return she told the servant-woman about living in King’s Landing and the King’s court. Though she realized she tells the experience not in longing, but disdain. Living in the capital as a royal indeed has its own pleasure. She slept on goose feather pillows and cotton blankets. The seamstress made her clothes adorned with gems and the food on the table was always rich and savory. 

Oddly, she does not miss any of those.

“Your Grace.”

They turned to Walton who bowed his head as Robb and his direwolf walking into the Godswood. Both women raised to their feet and Myrcella curtsied, Pia bowing her head. 

“I know I can find you here.” Robb said to Myrcella. She felt her heart skip a beat. “Maester Vyman wrote in his report that you spent your afternoons in the Godswood.” he explained. 

“Yes, Your Grace. I like it.” she said. “Godswood, I mean.”

Pia retreated respectfully and together with Walton they are waiting at the entrance of the Godswood to give them privacy.

Grey Wind padded to Myrcella and took a sniff at her hair. She giggled when Grey Wind stretched out its tongue to lick her ear, its tongue is quite thick but long and soft. 

“He likes you.” Robb sounded amused.

“I like him, too.” she responded through her giggle, Grey Wind has not stop licking her ear.

“Grey Wind, to me. Don’t torture her further.” Robb smiles and Grey obediently left to rest at his master’s heel. She was left flushed and she took a deep breath to compose herself. 

“Do you need something of me, Your Grace?”

“Oh. Aye. No. I mean...” he shifted his weight from left to right, the tip of his foot tapped the earth mound below. He cleared his throat. “I also like to spend time in here. Away from the crowd and Lords and other people. Just me and Grey Wind.”

“Ah, forgive me, Your Grace. I will leave then.” she offered apologetically and ready to excuse herself when Robb raise a hand to stop her.

“It’s all right. You can stay. This place is for everyone who seek the Old Gods, isn’t it? Shame there is no more weirwood tree.”

She hesitated. Half of her wanted to go to the place Walton and Pia were waiting at the entrance, but the other half wanted to stay and enjoy the afternoon with Robb.

“Unless you wanted to go, of course. If not, I’d gladly welcome you here, Princess.” Robb offered. He scratched Grey Wind’s ears.

“I liked it here.” she admitted. “I wish I knew the beauty and solace of Godswood and its weirwood tree sooner.”

“Do you plan to abandon the faith of the seven?” Robb jokes.

“I still pray to them. It's just… different.”

“Princess,” he begin.

“Myrcella. Please.” 

He raised an eyebrow but smirking upon her reply. “Very well. _Myrcella,”_

She found she likes the sound of her name on his lips.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Have you met the Kingslayer?”

“I have, Your Grace, thank you for letting me sees him.” 

The mention of Jaime made her remembered what he had told her few days ago. She flinched at that, feeling uneasiness grew. _Don’t trust them,_ she almost could hear him say at the back of her mind. _Enemy. Enemy. Enemy,_ she told herself million times. Yet when she looked at Robb she doesn’t see the enemy her uncle warned her about. Not even the slightest.

“How is he?”

“The man who treated him said he’ll live, Your Grace.” she took a step back, unconsciously trying to make distance between her and Robb. “Though he will live his life a cripple.” 

 _They hurt uncle Jaime and they will hurt you to get to your mother and brother,_ the voice in the back of her head said.

“Lord Bolton’s hunter said he engaged him in a duel. It was self-defense.”

She took a step back again, refusing to meet Robb’s eyes.

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

“You can call me Robb, too.”

_I don’t think you understand how much I cannot do that._

“I think it won’t be appropriate, Your Grace.” 

“What is inappropriate is you refused to see me in the eye.” he teased but not unkindly.

She held her gaze on his foot and saw he took a step closer to her. 

“Then forgive me, Your Grace. I am your prisoner.” she said as she raised her head to meet his eyes, coinciding with Robb already standing in front of her with his finger under her chin.

He had touched her face once, back then in Riverrun, just after Lord Karstark’s wrath. At that time he was wearing his leather gloves. Now Robb’s rough skin touches her skin directly. His index finger was placed softly under Myrcella’s chin, while his thumb was just below her lips. 

“You are not my prisoner.” he said softly.

“Can you let me and my uncle go?” Myrcella felt audacious to say it, looking unwavering into his blue eyes.

_I am afraid I’d be lost in it._

“Unfortunately not.”

She tried to turn her face away but Robb’s fingers on her chin held back her movements. He was so close, even too close to be proper. Soon after Jaime told her to find something sharp she had stolen a small knife she found near the carpentry. Walton was talking to Pia when she saw the opportunity to snatch it. 

The blade is thin and shorter than other knives, but it was sheathed and it matched what Jaime had requested; sharp and small enough to be tucked behind her dress. Every time Pia finished helping her to dress Myrcella slid the knife behind her corset. She could reach it now, Myrcella thought. He is so near and all she needs to do was draw the knife quick enough to stab him in the neck.

 _Do it,_ the voice commanded. _Do it and end this war._

Her eyes flew to Grey Wind, who returned her gaze as if the direwolf could read her mind.

“Are you going to trade us for Sansa, or not?”

He thought her words for a second. “Perhaps, the Kingslayer will do.”

“And what of me?”

 _They will hurt you to get to your mother and brother,_ the vicious voice in her head whispered again. _Do it, before he does._

“Are you going to… hurt me?” she asked again when Robb did not answer straight away. She hated to hear her voice quivered.

“This is the second time you asked. Don’t you trust me? Is this how little you think of me?” he suddenly looked upset. 

The silence that came after was deafening. She could hear the breeze rippled the water gently down the stream. Grey Wind whined behind Robb and the sun slipped behind the horizon. His blue eyes become a shade darker under the cloudy sky.

“Your men hurt my uncle and killed ser Arys.” she said, rather a statement than question.

“If they lay a hand on you, I’ll break their every bone before I have their heads.”

It was not an answer she expected. Anger flashed in his face. Robb exhales and she realized she had held her breath too. 

“I understand you are concerned about the Kingslayer. And who knows what he whispered to you while you visiting him. Vicious hogwash, I’d wager. But I didn’t order any murder nor killings. Never.” his voice softens when she blinked away the tears that started to dwell in her eyes. “but when killings have to happen, do you think it didn’t haunt me? The two thousands men I’ve sent to their graves, thousands more who fell fighting beside me, my friends, my kin?” his voice vibrating with anger and sadness. _“They haunt me.”_ he hissed.

Grey Wind’s ears perked up at their tension but the direwolf remained silence in its resting place. A drop of tear dripped onto her cheek. Robb’s thumb moved from her chin to wipe the offensive tears from her cheek. 

“So why should you add more blood to your hand if it’s not necessary?” he whispered, eyes locked on her cheek. Robb is taller than her and he had to lower his head when he looked at her face. She could see how long and thick his eyelashes are.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” she finally muttered. 

“Robb.” he reminded her, his voice soft but powerful enough to send thousand butterflies flutter in her belly. 

She didn’t answer. Her skin tingled where Robb’s fingers lingered and her heart still beats erratically so hard she thought it might fly out her chest. It felt bizarrely good. 

 _What is happening to me?_ she pondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for leaving kudos, comments and bookmarking/subscribing.  
> It really, really humbles me. Apologies in advance for any typos.  
> I was diagnosed with ear infection yesterday and I'm in so much pain.   
> I will update soon after my ear getting better.   
> Seven blessings! :)
> 
> xx


	10. Chapter 10

Twice, Robb Stark said he will not let harm comes to her. Twice she had questioned him about it, and twice she had thought to hurt him herself. It brings her shame knowing that Robb is only being honorable like his father. Myrcella realized she witnessed the outrages Joffrey and his men committed for so long, that it made her almost lost trust and respect to lords and Kings. She had seen how Sansa Stark lives in fear of Joffrey’s wrath. She tried to comfort the older Stark girl, still befriends her somehow, yet she understands Sansa already wear a mask in the form of politeness and courtesies to avoid torture. They used to be friends but it withered right away when Lord Stark loses his head and War of the Five Kings broke loose.

Myrcella thought about Sansa a lot, and Arya, and Lord Eddard and ser Arys. She thought of Tommen and her mother, sometimes she had to stifled her cry in the night, afraid Pia or Walton and her other guards would heard. Pia slept in a small room connecting to hers.

Nightmares came frequently to her. It came in the form of a crowned knight, mocking her, sometimes trying to reach her with his great Valyrian sword. She still dream of headless knights in crimson and gold, groping, dragging her… 

 _“I’m so sorry,”_ she pleads to her ghosts. Other time she dreamed of a bed covered in buttercups flowers on which she laid pale and motionless. Like she was watching herself died. Every time she’d jerked awake and trembling, terrified to close her eyes again.

She didn’t visit the Godswood anymore, not after she learnt that Robb also liked to spend time in there. She has not has the courage to see him in person. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss Robb and the feeling is strange to her.

Oft times she break her fast in the main hall that contains some thirty hearths. The hall was so huge, too crowded, and too noisy that she could almost go unnoticed. Hundreds men-at-arms filled the main hall, chattering, singing bawdy songs, one or two would make a move on Pia who Walton angrily shooed away. 

“I don’t get it.” Walton grumbled as she and Pia helped themselves with fish porridge and bacon, sitting happily on one of five long wooden bench. “Why you can’t just stay in your room and let the servants bring your food? This place is no place for girls like you. Not even if your try to conceal those golden hair under a hood.”

“He doesn’t meant it, milady,” Pia’s eyes throw daggers towards Walton who rolled his eyes in dismay. “It is fully your rights to break your fast in the main hall. I don’t mind it.”

“Well, I do.” Walton refused to back down. “Look at these men. They ogled at you two like hawks eyeing a prey!”

Pia sighs dreamily at Myrcella’s surly gaoler. 

“It won’t look good on me…” Walton started, _“if something happen to Princess Myrcella under your supervision,_ yes, Walton, we knew.” Pia swiftly finished his sentence for him and Walton turned beet red.

“Thank you, Walton,” Myrcella said sincerely. “Please sit next to Pia and try this porridge. It can make your mood better.”

“It won’t,” he grunted but sit next to the pretty servant anyway. 

Ignoring Walton, Myrcella tidied the shawl that covered her hair while stealing glances at the giant table at the end of the main hall. Anticipation was a strange energy; the kind of nervous one that tingles through her, sending warm vibration from her head to toe. There is only a reason why sometimes she chose to break her fast in the main hall, even when she shared Walton’s concern about ogling soldiers. 

Robb sat at the center of the long wooden table, talking with Lord Bolton on his left. He is nibbling on his bread while listening to what Lord Bolton said. She just wanted to take a good look at him. Myrcella could see the top of Grey Wind’s pointy ears from where she sit, the beast is too big now to be covered completely under the table. Robb’s blue eyes combed the entire room, nodding and greeting his men. Sometimes he stopped long enough to listen and converse with them.

_Look at me._

There were always a brief time which Robb held his gaze across the hall, observing his men. She ducked her head then, heart humming fast behind the rib cage. 

_No, please don’t notice me._

Normally she waited until Robb rose from his seat and left with his lords and companions. Then she could swallow whatever food in front of her and went back to her chamber with Pia and Walton. The rest of the day will be spent with them in her chamber, as she avoided the Godswood like a plague.

That morning was not much different than previous mornings though a bit peculiar. The main hall was not as packed as usual. Only few dozen men scattered in five long tables in the room. The troops looked alert and their movements began to look more agile. She sensed something is happening but she doesn’t really understand what that is.

Myrcella sat between Pia and Walton (who still grumbled for the hundredth time), a bowl of porridge and hot bread on her plate. She doesn’t see Robb nor other high lords. Sighing and slowly nibble on her bread, Myrcella tried to hide her crestfallen expression from her two friends.

 _Friends,_ she thought contemplatively. Pia and Walton constant presence have been dear to her. Walton defended her from Lord Karstark ill-meaning plan, and though most of the time the sour guard whined what a mundane duty he was assigned to, Myrcella know he is good-hearted and loyal to his King. Since they came to Harrenhal she even noticed Walton’s surly expression softens. One or two rare occasions she caught him smiling ear to ear with Pia. The servant is such a sweetheart; cheerful and eager to please. Myrcella made sure Pia doesn’t have to feel embarrassed about herself. Everyone have scars too, it doesn't reduce one’s worth.

_They have grown dear to me, my only friends in the wolf’s den. Well, aside from Robb Stark, for being honorable, whatever our relationship is._

“Walton, do you know where the King might be?” she dared ask, though hopefully her voice didn’t betray any emotion.

“Why?” Walton narrowed his eyes to her.

“He is not in the hall.”

“So?”

Sometimes Walton can be as thick as a bull.

“King Robb and King Stannis locked themselves in the council room since last night.” Pia answered for her. “I think they are planning something. I heard Martha delivered wine and food to King Robb’s chamber this morning.”

“You are very observant,” Walton said to Pia, in such tender voice that made Pia smiles. Only in front of Myrcella and Walton, Pia recently began to speak without having to cover her mouth with her hand. It was a very big leap of trust.

Myrcella went back to her food, her mind flew to Robb and her uncle Stannis. She has not seen Stannis yet since she arrived in Harrenhal. But again, Stannis never bothered to know her and she was just a child the last time she saw him in King’s Landing. The only memory she remembered from her grim uncle was how serious the man was. Serious, never smiles, eyes as sharp as a sword.

_Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all high lords of Westeros, announcing Joffrey is neither a true King nor a true Baratheon. Do you know what it makes you?_

Lady Catelyn’s words suddenly came to her and unintentionally her hand shaken so hard that she dropped her tankard of honeyed milk. The white liquid spattered onto the table and the front of her dress.

“Milady?” Pia looked concern, dabbing her dress with handkerchief. “Are you allright?”

“Can we go back, please?” she rose to her feet without waiting for an answer.

“Right away, milady.” Pia, too, rose and glared at Walton who hurriedly stuffed his last chunk of bread into his mouth.

They escorted her back to the Tower of Dread, with Myrcella walks faster than usual. Suddenly she just wanted to be alone in her chamber, solaced by the silent grey stones of her walls as she mend her aching heart. Lady Catelyn’s words had awoken something inside her, but what was that she doesn’t want to confront it. Not now. 

She turned in the corner where the entrance to the Tower of Dread is, when she saw him.

Robb stood in front of the spiral staircase, conversing with ser Patrek and two other knights in mailchains she didn’t recognised. They all looked at her and bowed. 

“Your Grace, good morning.” she curtsied deeply. 

“Let’s talk about it later.” Robb said to his companions, and with that they bowed their heads again before taking their leave. 

Robb turned his attention to Myrcella. “I looked for you in the Godswood.” 

“My apologies, Your Grace. I don’t want to intervene your space.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t give me space; that’s the last thing I want with you.”

_Me, too. But I can’t. I was afraid to meet you there._

“Are you mad at me?”

His question startled her. 

_How can I mad at you? I am angry at myself._

“No, Your Grace.”

“So it is now _Your Grace_?” he smirked. “It is not fair. I shall call you by your title again.”

“Have you break your fast, Your Grace?” she chose to change the topic. “I hope everything was well.”

“It was well. I just need more time than usual to sort some things lately.” 

“Of course, Your Grace. You don’t have to always eat in the middle of the crowd.”

“As do you,” he replied, smiling. “Think I didn’t notice? You’re hard to be missed, even under that shawl, _Princess._ ” the last sentence made her want to crawl under a rock.

“Do you always break your fast among your men, Your Grace?” she tried to keep her voice calm and unwavered under his intense gaze. 

“Aye. A lord needs to eat with his men if he hopes to keep them. Know the men who follow you and let them know you. Don’t ask your men to die for a stranger. My father taught me so. It was a habit in Winterfell.” His smile still not leaving his face.

“Lord Eddard raised his children right, Your Grace. I grew to admire him.”

_Can you please stop smiling?_

“Are you well?” Robb asked. He must have noticed the dark circle under her eyes.

“I am, Your Grace. If you will excuse me, I need to get back to my chamber.” She gestured at her stained dress.

“May I escort you?” Robb offered his arm. Myrcella took it warily, hoping he didn’t offer such courtesy. That weird feeling whenever Robb stood too near to her always made her belly turned upside down. 

“Yes, you may, Your Grace.”

Walton and Pia followed in respectful distance as they made their way ascended the spiral staircase. Every step of their way up made their shoulders rub against each other. Fortunately it took three floors away from the ground to her chamber, since only the bottom fifth of each tower was occupied and continued to serviced. When they reached her door Myrcella quickly pulled her hand from Robb’s arm. 

“Thank you—,” she begin, but Robb turned to Walton and Pia who just reached the end of the stairs.

“Walton, I expect Princess Myrcella in the west stable this afternoon.” 

Walton bowed his head. “Aye, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace—,” Myrcella spoke up again, bewildered, but this time Robb addressed Pia.

“She will need warm dress and a cloak.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Pia nodded her head.

“I beg your pardon—,” Myrcella looked at Robb in disbelief.

The Young Wolf instead retreated to the staircase. “I will see you this afternoon, Princess.” he said casually, deaf to her complaints. Robb soon disappeared behind the stairs, leaving her dumbfounded.

Later that day Pia spent hours offering to brush her hair but Myrcella shook her head. Myrcella lay on her bed hugging herself tightly under the blanket. She had been like that since she was back in her chamber. A tray of lunch went untouched as her stomach couldn’t process a bite let alone finishing a whole bowl of venison stew.

Hours passed; soon she know Walton would come to take her to Robb.

“I don’t want to go.” Myrcella said sternly as Pia brought out a wool dress to her. Its light blue color compliments her fair skin and green eyes, but Myrcella was unwilling to even regard Pia’s effort on dressing her. 

“But King Robb summoned you, milady.”

“I don’t want to.” she hates being stubborn but she’s afraid to be near Robb again. It was strange. Even though Myrcella knew it wasn’t Robb that scared her, but her own heart. “He can have my head if my refusal angered him.” Myrcella added, to Pia horror. 

A soft knock was heard and Myrcella knew it was Walton.

“She doesn’t want to go,” Myrcella heard Pia told Walton from the door and his guard’s gruff voice.

“Then you and me will be in trouble.” Walton said sourly.

“Let it be. She is… exhausted.”

“The King won’t be happy. I shall take the girl to the stables by force if need too.”

“No, you shall not!” Pia hissed. “Just tell King Robb, milady is not feeling well!”

“Are you crazy, woman—,”

They started to argue and Myrcella sighed.

“Fine, I will go,” Myrcella called from the bed, sighing in defeat to stop Walton and Pia arguing.

Relief, Pia immediately helped her get dressed afraid she would change her mind again. Afterwards the servant brushed her hair and braided the long hair into thick fishtail braid crown. Myrcella only own one simple black cloak given by the seamstress in Riverrun, and Pia tied the cloak around her shoulders. As usual she slipped the small knife behind her corset. She is good to go just then.

Walton rolled his eyes when she finally emerged from her chamber.

“Come on now, girl, I don’t want to make The King waiting!” he grumbled but say nothing more as Pia shot him a look.

Robb undeniably has already waiting in front of the stable. He wears his grey armor under the fur surcoat. 

“I thought you wouldn’t come.” he said as a greeting when Myrcella approached and gave a half-hearted curtsied. 

“I did consider not to come, Your Grace.” she admitted, gestured to Walton and Pia behind her. “They made me.” 

“I am glad they do.” Robb smirked.

A stable boy brought out Robb’s warhorse from inside the stable, a tall black horse already saddled. The warhorse’s muscles rippled from freshly groomed and it hooves on its powerful legs. From close range the warhorse looks tall and menacing, befitting for a King.

“Do you mean to take me riding, Your Grace?” Myrcella looked uncertain at the horse. No way she could mount such thing.

“Do you trust me?” he asked as he stretch out his hand to her. She rolled her eyes and Robb grinned. “That was not so ladylike. Your Septa will be disappointed.” he remarked. 

“No, it was Walton-like.” She could see Pia suppressing a giggle and Walton grumbles incoherently. 

Robb laughed. His teeth shone in the bright pool of light by the afternoon rays. They were neat and shiny, and she was mesmerized by his carefree laugh. Myrcella took his outstretched hand. Robb helped her climbed onto his black destrier. 

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“Every girl like surprises.” Robb replied as a matter of factly.

“I am not a girl anymore.” she muttered to herself.

“No, of course you are not, Princess.” Robb gave in, looking up at Myrcella atop his horse. He sighed, running his long fingers through his auburn curls. 

Robb mounted the destrier to sit behind her. Soon she was engulfed by his body heat. He smells nice, too, which is a huge notice to the butterflies in her belly. Her back was on Robb’s chest and she tried to keep her distance but Robb’s hand on her shoulder gently led her to lean. She tensed at his touch.

“Relax,” he said softly, mistaking her discomfort as fear. “Have you not ridden on a warhorse before?”

“No. Not in this position.” Myrcella shook her head.

_Isn’t this too… intimate?_

Myrcella throw a pleading look towards Pia but the servant smiles encouragingly. 

Robb chuckled. “Stop shaking your head. Your hair tingles.” he scratched his nose.

“This is a bad idea,” she blurted out. “Put me down. Please.”

“Too late now Princess. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.” 

Robb kicked the destrier and soon they are galloping out the portcullis and into the woods.

She waited for his hand to roam like Locke once did, but instead Robb kept his hands on the reins. Yet his shoulder and arms lean towards her in a protective manner, unwilling to risk her slipped and fell from his horse. He only once seizes her waist, to keep her balanced, when his warhorse leaped on a dead tree trunk.

Grey Wind howls in the distance. The direwolf emerged from behind a tree, sniffing, before running to meet them. The beast was fast; only a blur of grey she couldn’t perfectly catch up as Robb urged their horse faster to keep up with his direwolf. She held onto Robb’s arm.

In a little while they are leaving the woods and into a prairie. As flat as a table, as wide as an ocean… there were no mountains or hills, nothing to block the breathtaking view to the horizon and huge field of waving grass and wildflowers. She gasped at the beauty in front of her eyes. She knew that Riverlands are fertile, but did not expect there would still be such green expanse before her eyes, untouched by war.

Slowly the pace of the horse slowed down until it stopped completely in the middle of the prairie. Robb’s black warhorse neighed softly as his master pulled its rein. He dismounted easily, gliding down from the big horse with ease and grace. Myrcella turned so her stomach was against the side of the saddle and her legs are next to each other. She looked down doubtfully—Robb’s warhorse was just too huge and too tall for her to dismount easily. 

Reading her expression, Robb placed his hand on her waist again. 

“Gently,” he said.

Myrcella slide down and plunged directly into Robb’s arms. Robb held back most of her body weight so she would not fall to the ground. As soon as she steadied her foot Myrcella withdrew from Robb, didn’t dare to see him in the eye.

The prairie was glorious. She couldn’t contain her excitement as she ran to meet the wind that caressed her face. The tall grass—thick and lush—rustling gently in the breeze. The sky was bright and blue, dancing merrily with white puffy clouds above their heads. Rows of pine and apple trees surrounded the prairie. Purple hyssops, white asters, harebells and buttercup flowers seemed competing to fill the prairie with vibrant eye-catching colours. 

“Well?” Robb ran after her. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Do you like it?” He catches up with her easily despite his armor and the long sword hanging from his belt.

“I _loved_ it!” she exclaimed and for a second their eyes met. 

“If you keep running like that, I’d think you try to run away.” Robb teased but he sounded pleased at her enthusiasm. Myrcella stopped to catch her breath. 

Robb gave her a small smile.

 _I like your smile, too,_ the thought came to her uninvited. 

They let the horse grazed at its heart content as Myrcella sat in the middle of the field, collecting flowers into a bouquet. Robb examined her from a distance, letting her be. 

“How did you find this place?” she looked up at him, still standing few feet away. “I thought you were busy with your lords and lieutenants, Your Grace.” she meant to tease but Robb looked serious.

Robb’s direwolf emerged from the woods and joined them in the prairie. Grey Wind greeted his master before padded to Myrcella and nuzzled at her hand.

“I saw it in my dreams.” he answered after a moment, watching Grey Wolf sitting next to Myrcella. The direwolf closed its yellow eyes enjoying Myrcella’s hand scratching behind its ears.

“What do you mean, you saw it in your dreams?”

“I just saw it. Like I saw you that night.” Myrcella realized Robb was talking about the night Grey Wind found her in the Red Fork. She had thought the direwolf was going to devour her back then. “Sometimes I felt like I don’t sleep.” Robb continued. “I was him. I ran with him. I see what he sees. We hunt together as one,” he smiled at his direwolf. “Do you think it is strange?”

“I don’t know what is strange anymore.” she replied honestly. “But I think it is nice. At least your dreams don't scare you.”

“What about yours?”

“If you sit with me maybe I’d tell.” she said boldly and Robb complied. As soon as the man sat next to her on the grass, Myrcella felt the butterflies in her stomach flutter again. It was meant a tease; Myrcella never thought Robb would follow.

“Well?” he raised an eyebrow, waiting.

She cringed. “My dreams were not as fascinating as yours. I—I feel guilty all the time... Gold, red, and grey. Ser Arys. My family. You, sometimes.” she felt stupid and vulnerable of telling him. 

“Me? What am I doing in your dreams?” Robb looked puzzled.

_Trying to kill me._

“You know I am going to keep you safe, right?” Robb said softly when she didn’t answer.

Myrcella nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

She cast down her eyes and continued making a bouquet while Robb took out a whetstone from the saddle bag and started honing his sword. For awhile they were busy with their own commotion. 

When Myrcella didn’t hear the soft rhythmic of stone hitting steel, she looked up to find he was already staring at her.

“What will you do when the war ends, Your Grace?” Myrcella asked.

“It will be nice to take my sisters home. Almost a year since I last saw my baby brothers… I will need to prepare my people for the upcoming winter, and… I have to marry my betrothed.” Robb replied, betraying no emotion as his blue eyes pierced her green ones. He sheathed his sword. “Just back to normal life, I guess.”

“I hope you succeed and your betrothed make you happy, Your Grace.”

This time it was Robb who didn’t answer. 

It was like invisible hands squeezed her heart and tearing it to pieces. Realizing that he is promised to another woman—which if life does not say otherwise she could be that woman—somehow made her feels miserable.

“Have you meet your betrothed, Your Grace?”

“No. But Lord Frey said I could pick any of his daughters or granddaughters.” there was no excitement in his voice.

“Why are you running to Casterly Rock instead of Dorne?” Robb asked casually.

“I don’t want to get married without love.” 

“Me neither.”

They lay on their backs, side by side, and let their eyes wandered upward to the sky. A thick grey cloud came to cast shades on them. Grey Wind yawns, stood up and ran towards the woods. 

“When I was leading campaign in the Ford, every time I saw buttercup flowers I think of you.” 

Myrcella was surprised at the confession. She turned her head to Robb but he lay still with his eyes closed. 

“Your awful dreams… I wish I could take it all away.” he said tenderly behind closed eyes.

She was touched by his honesty and his kindness. How could she think of hurting him? The knife tucked behind her corset fid uncomfortably. She wanted to grab the knife and throw it away. Their arms lay straight down at their sides. If she extends her fingers she could touch his...

“I am willing to give everything to end this war. I even give anything if it can return your father.” _I am so sorry for my family’s sins..._

Robb sighed.

They continued to lay there on the lush grass, enjoying the weather. 

“It is very peaceful in here. Thank you, Your Grace.” she murmured sleepily. 

“Pleasure is mine, Princess.” his voice, too, sounded drowsy.

 _Odd,_ Myrcella thought. _I am sleeping with the enemy... yet here is more comfortable than any feather bed._

Myrcella was half drifted away when she felt the first wet drop fell on her eyelid. She jerked awake instantly. 

“It’s raining!” she shouted as cold water suddenly poured from the sky.

“I can see that!” Robb shouted back, grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the trees. They ran as fast as their feet could take them on the damp soil, laughing as the water droplets showered their heads. Those drops were fierce and coming down as hard as the rain bore down mercilessly upon the prairie. In few seconds the grass became muddy and her shoes glided, but Robb’s firm hands on hers prevent her from slipping. He fared better than her as Robb wears his leather boots.

“Oh my Gods, what was that?!” she yelped as they finally reached the nearest shadows of an apple tree.

“The last of the summer’s rain.” Robb said, smirking. 

Myrcella shivered under her cloak. They were soaked as they ran to seek shelter under a row of apple trees at the end of the field. She could see Robb’s curls were messy and damp, a few auburn strands stuck to his forehead. He carelessly runs his fingers through his hair. Myrcella swallowed and look away as if Robb was doing something scandalous. 

Realizing she must be a mess too, she tried to tidy up her dishevelled braid with trembling hand.

“Your cloak is too thin,” Robb mentioned as he observed her wet cloak.

“Apologies, Your Grace, I forgot to bring a decent one from King’s Landing.” she replied indifferently but Robb only chuckled.

The cloak was indeed too thin to her liking in the Riverlands weather, with summer coming to an end. The black cloak was fastened across the front with a cord on her breastbone height. Robb’s long fingers traced the cord and pulled until the bond was released and Myrcella’s wet cloak fell to the her feet.

Robb reached to his own fur surcoat and unfastened the clasp that made an X on his gorget. Before she could say a word, Robb takes off his surcoat and puts the thick garment around her shoulders. The wolf’s brown and black fur sewn on the top of the coat rub her cheeks, but Myrcella sank into the warmth. 

It has Robb’s scent too and it was so intoxicating she almost felt herself drunk. He smelled of leather and freshly cut timber, intermingling with cinnamon and pine and new parchment combined. It was too heavenly she couldn’t get enough of it. She found herself inhaling the aroma deeply as she stares into Robb’s blue eyes.

He returned her gaze with equal intensity.

“I—,” she begin, but soon forgets what she was about to say. She tried to lowered her eyes politely but instead they rest on his lips.

The sky began to open, dark clouds moved to make room for the sun to peek through the clouds. A dazzling glare of orange and gold afternoon started to appears, stretches far and wide. 

It was the magic hour when the sun dyed everything in the color of a blazing hearth. The rain stopped as quickly as it came; clouds partially disappeared. Her back rested under the apple tree, beneath the shade of its branches and thick leaves. Robb stood before her, his hands rested on her shoulders. His auburn hair glow under the afternoon sun like a crown of halo. 

The sight of it filled her with a calm happiness she never felt before...

“What if I want to keep you here, for myself?” he asked out of blue.

“I am your hostage. I am at your mercy.” 

_Was that what he wanted to hear?_

“No,” he shook his head. “You are not my hostage. I said you are my _guest,_ didn’t I? _”_

_He did._

Myrcella nodded.

“Myrcella,” he begin after a while.

“Yes?” she asked, her heart pounding. For awhile she doesn’t realize he didn’t use her title.

“I am going to lead another campaign soon.” Robb said, finally letting go of her. As soon as his hands leaving her shoulders she felt a pang of sadness.

Myrcella blinked her eyes. 

_He is leaving again._

“I will pray for your safe return, Your Grace.” 

Robb smiles. All she wants to do was to be drown in his arms again.

“Thank you,” he replied. “But you will come with me.”

“Your Grace?” Did she hear him all right?

“Bear with me a little longer, will you?” Robb crouched on the clammy ground, his face tired but determined. “I want you to trust me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I loved Nell Tiger Free as Myrcella Baratheon (in the TV series), but Elle Fanning is my own personal choice for my Myrcella.


	11. Chapter 11

**THE SERVANT**

_Pretty Pia,_ it was the name people used to call her. Yes, she was pretty; at least she was comely more than other girls she knew. 

Once she dreamed of marrying into a good family, to a kind knight. Even though she grew up being a washer woman like her mother before her, she never shied away from such dream. All of that thanks to the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, whom she witnessed was raised to the Kingsguard and stood cloaked in all white by the last Targaryen King. Jaime was tall and muscular; a proud and handsome man with curled hair the color of beaten gold. His smile cuts like a knife. Pia always thinks Jaime is the knights in stories… she often dreamed about him, and then when she grew older she imagined it was to him she made love with.

And she got laid regularly as men lined up easily to get into her skirts. She has the looks, the body, and the willingness to sleep with them. She never been picky; as long as she closed her eyes Jaime Lannister’s face sprung to her mind. 

 _Pretty Pia_ —some meant to belittling, other perhaps compliment though she never give any thoughts. As years went by Jaime Lannister’s face became a fading memory. When the Lannister troops taken Harrenhal by force from her former liege, House Whent, she thought she’d seen Jaime again. Not that she hoped to struck any relationship with him, no, Pia always knew her place. She just wanted a glimpse of him, the handsome knight from her childhood. But there was no Jaime in the flood of men Tywin brought.

There were horrible knights, though.

They gathered women and children, separate them and give them work to do. Men were mostly put to sword unless they were proven valuable like a blacksmith or carpenter. The pretty ones were separated again and at night she endured being used by the soldiers. 

They were never gentle. They were harsh; beating her, bite her, one even keen to slap her face during love making. Pretty Pia was popular among the men. 

Men who wanted to fuck her could line up from dusk ‘till dawn, but after the Mountain smashed her face she became Broken Pia. No one wanted to look at her. Once, she overheard men talking about how they’d fuck her only at night when her face became bearable.

Not long after the liberation of Harrenhal by the joined forces of Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark, Jaime Lannister himself came into Harrenhal chained in his stretcher. He was delirious from fever; his right hand was covered and bound into a bloody bundle that gave off foul odor. He was weak from imprisonment and chained mercilessly despite his wounds. Lady Whent’s maester was slain by the Lannisters but there is this old man they called Qyburn among them. Pia helped Qyburn took care of Jaime; she put on fresh garment on him, clean his chamber pot, change his bed sheets, sometimes she feed him fish porridge. Jaime was in and out consciousness most of the time. When he was unconscious, Pia observed the scars and bruises all over his body. He was beaten up frequently by his captors.

As soon as she heard women at the buttery cleaning a room in the Tower of Dread which was meant to be occupied by Jaime Lannister’s niece Princess Myrcella Baratheon, Pia chose to offer her service as the princess’s servant. All women refused to serve the princess since they still upset from the Lannister occupation. Most rivermen has lost husbands, children, friends or someone they know who were slaughtered by Lannister forces. 

Pia might lose her childhood dream of marrying a kind knight, but it doesn’t mean she cannot be near a girl who will be lucky enough to live her dream. It will be an experience itself, serving a _real_ princess, rather than wasting her time washing clothes. Plus as a servant she is given a small room connecting to the princess’s chamber to sleep. She feels safe sleeping apart from the other people, especially from men who infiltrated her bed hoping to get into her skirt.

Sometimes one or two who knew her previous reputation would try their luck. One evening a man took her refusal too personal and decided to force her. Fortunately the Princess’s guard was there to fend his fellow soldier away. 

“I heard what they did.” Walton said in his gruff tone as she smoothed her clothes with trembling hands. His bearded face was plain like most northerner, but she recognized his kindness. “I am sorry that happened to you. It won’t happen again.”

She was close to tears so she could only nod in thanks. He seemed sincere and most importantly he respected her. Walton rarely smiles. Yet now and then they’d struck small conversation about his home in far north, about this Winterfell castle where he proudly serves since a little boy, and his hopes of knighthood. She knew Walton felt guarding the princess keep him away from battlefields where valor and knighthood lingers. He does it anyway for the sake of honor and loyalty to his King.

“Are there many knights in the north?” Pia couldn’t resist her curiosity. Walton and she were standing at the gate of the Godswood, where the Princess was inside with King Robb and his direwolf. They had time to talk while waiting.

“Not really,” Walton answered, scratching at his beard. “We northerners aren’t knights. Many lords are not knighted but there are exceptions. I know that house Manderly and Mormont have some knights. My uncle Rodrik who served as master of arms in Winterfell is also a knight. My cousin Jory and I grew up dreaming of being knighted. But truth be told, not many knights in the north.”

“And you want to be one?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“Being knighted means a man demonstrate bravery, loyalty, and devotion especially to his liege. Prestigious, too, though in reality I can’t afford a knight’s armor and warhorse.” Walton grinned.

“You are more brave, loyal and kinder than any knight I knew.” she told him bluntly. Walton opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, Pia even thought he’d rolled his eyes at her but no words came out and his eyes widened at her. “It’s true,” she blushed.

And life goes on in Harrenhal; a better one after the liberation. 

Pia likes to take care of Myrcella’s needs. Although there are other servants to help the princess, Pia prefers to take care of everything herself. She woke up at dawn to heat the princess’s bath water. If the princess wants to eat in her chamber, Pia will go to the kitchen to tell other servants to bring food. Even though later the princess didn’t break her fast in her chamber but rather joined in the main hall.

Their days were spent pretty much peacefully. They sew and talk over tea. She loves her story about the king’s court the most; how the women dresses in rich velvet, hairstyles that were popularized by Myrcella’s mother, the inlay of gemstones and willow carvings on pillars that supported the Red Keep… Pia imagined it with awe. She’d then looked at the princess who sews in front of her, all smiles while she told her the story, and wondered if she ever missed all those things. 

“No, I don’t.” Myrcella answered plainly when one day she dared to ask the question. “They were kind to me, of course, I am the princess. Now I realize that it was only on the surface. I don’t really have a friend, or someone to really talk to aside from my little brother. But then he only sees ten namedays and I want to protect him. My mother is perhaps the luckiest woman in seven kingdoms; she is Queen married to the King. But she is not happy, I know that. We wore luxurious and fragrant clothes. We always have plenty food on our table. But everyone in my family was unhappy. When enough is enough?”

The princess woke up early because she couldn’t sleep. Sometimes from her small room she could hear the princess’s cry at night. Both kings only permitted Myrcella to visit the Kingslayer once, when she just arrived in Harrenhal. Pia knows the girl missed and in constant worry of Jaime’s condition, yet there is nothing she could do.

Every day Pia helped Myrcella take her bath. Her golden hair shines even more as she combs diligently. They chatted lightly every time, moving and spending their days in routine. They pass a lot of time together. She learn about her and get to know her.

The princess is humble and kind; smiling continuously at servants and guards who looked at her sarcastically and suspiciously. She praised every braid Pia made. She continued to engage Walton in conversation even when his reaction was cold and inclined to underestimate the young girl. Kindness spark in the princess’s smile, a gentleness Pia rarely saw in her life.

For whatever reason Robb treated her honorably, Pia is grateful the princess was kept away and guarded by good men like Walton. Lannisters forces and her brother in the iron throne have caused a lot of suffering which inflict deep resentment on most rivermen and nothernmen. They remembers and Jaime Lannister experienced it firsthand. Pia shuddered to recalled what the soldiers and stable workers said when they talked among themselves about Princess Myrcella. 

The young girl inhaled sharply as Pia pulled her corset tighter and helped her into a dress, with every evening Pia aided the princess undress and pulled her nightgown. Then suddenly Myrcella doesn’t want her help, though she asked Pia to loosen her corset but proceed to get out of her dress on her own. 

Myrcella thought Pia doesn’t know. 

It could be the reason Pia chose to turn blind eye of what the princess hiding under her clothes. Pia didn’t know how Myrcella could get the knife but given the threats and lewd talk among the men, she decided not to ask questions or report the princess. She hoped she had something to hurt the Mountain when he took her by force. How stupid she was for to saying _no_ to the monster. When he smashed her face with his gauntlet fist she only laid frozen—while choking in her own blood—afraid for her meaningless life. She should have fought back and die.

Every woman has the right to defend herself. And God helped any man who laid a finger by force on Myrcella; she hoped the girl and her little knife give him good resistance.

 

“Stannis will definitely kill all Cersei Lannister’s children. He believed them to be bastards borne of the Queen’s incest with the Kingslayer.” Martha whispered. “I heard him m’self when they talked.”

“King Robb will not kill my princess.” Pia argued. “She is under his protection, he took her himself, not King Stannis.” 

Martha shrugged. “Say what you will, Pia. But hear me; your dear princess is a Lannister. Everybody knew it.”

Martha might have been very sure that Stannis would harm Princess Myrcella once he took the iron throne. However, Pia also believes that Robb will not let that happen. She knew the Princess is Robb’s hostage, not Stannis’s. 

 _It must be so, because Stannis is going to King’s Landing with the Kingslayer who is actually also Robb’s hostage,_ Pia thought to herself. _If not, why bring the princess to a Westerlands campaign, instead of the old lion’s heir?_

She had received order that Robb will bring Myrcella when he is marching to Westerlands. Whatever reason or strategy was agreed upon by the two kings, Pia felt Robb deliberately brought Myrcella to prevent Stannis from touching her. Since yesterday the entire castle was busy with preparations to march. The main hall was packed with soldiers so Walton advised Myrcella to break her fast in her chamber. Pia had gone to the kitchen to fetch bread, bacon, and cheese. 

She learnt that the two kings placed several trusted lords and lady in one another’s forces. Lady Mormont, Lord Cerwyn and Lord Karstark are among the nobles Robb put into Stannis’s, with Lord Durrandon, two of Lord Swann’s sons and Lady Tarth put into Robb’s. She had seen Lady Brienne of Tarth, heir of Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall. Just like Lady Mormont, she is unusually tall and muscular for a woman. Yet unlike the other warrior lady, the heir to the sapphire island wears full bodied steel armor in brilliant, deep blue cobalt. 

Martha and several kitchen maids had to go back and forth from the kitchen to the room that was used by the two kings as council chamber. Sometimes Stannis and Robb shut themselves up for days inside. The servants could hear their arguments, tired and tense faces, but there wasn’t much to eavesdrop. A pretty woman clad in all red never left Stannis’s side, at first she thought she must be his Hand, until Martha said that she is Stannis’s priestess. That explains why Stannis’s sigil now contains an element of R’hlor, although Pia doesn’t really understand the foreign religion. Brynden Tully was also never far from Robb’s side, acting as his Hand and Master of War. 

They marched with Robb’s forces when the sun goes down. House Whent owned several carriages and few survived the Lannister occupation. Yet no carriage for the princess to travel by reason of efficiency. Horse-drawn carriage required more maintenance and greater care, not to mention that it also troublesome as a means of transportation during military campaign. So a wagon was arranged as the princess’s quarters during their marching.

Myrcella didn’t even look bothered as she sat in the corner inside the wagon, hands on her lap as Pia climbed in. At least the wagon is clean and Pia tried to make the march comfortable enough for Myrcella by stocking up blankets and extra pillows. Walton will ride on his brown horse with other men next to their wagon. 

The girl sat huddled beneath a dark surcoat with brown-black fur; something she realized became Myrcella’s habit every time she felt anxious. That surcoat belongs to the King in The North until few nights ago. Pia remembered when she and Walton waited on the west stable until the sun had fully set. Robb’s great warhorse entered the gate with Myrcella curled up almost hidden under the thick surcoat and Robb’s arms around her. They were damp and the princess’s dress clung tightly to her body. No questions were asked; there were not many words exchanged between them when Robb helped the girl off his horse. Pia caught Myrcella’s eyes lingered a bit longer on Robb as the man walked to different direction. The next day she shyly asked Pia how to clean the surcoat, which at that time was stained of dust and dry mud. She showed Myrcella the bath house where washerwomen also use as laundry. Just outside the stone bath house were wooden troughs. Walton helped Pia poured pails of hot water to the lye and white clay in the troughs. King Robb’s surcoat was finely made so Pia didn’t retrieve the wooden bat to beat the cloth. Instead, she showed the princess how to wash the surcoat by placing it in the trough, part with the fur facing upward leaning against the side of the trough so it was not submerged in the water. The dirty cloth needs to be rubbed with soap, soaked, and then rub again before finally rinsed with warm clean water. She refused when the princess insisted on doing it herself, but let the girl tried on rubbing the cloth with soap.

As soon as the surcoat was dry Pia delivered it to the King’s chamber. She witnessed the young king’s face softens when he laid eyes on the clean surcoat, but insisted that the princess needs it more than he. On several different occurrences Pia noticed how the Young Wolf’s eyes often wandered to Myrcella; they seemed to stare right into her but the princess hardly noticed...

 _Who could blame him, when the princess shines as bright as the sun?_ she thought proudly. 

Even though it was rather strange she thought the two of them gazed at each other when they thought the other is not looking.

She now watched Myrcella closely as the girl wrapped herself with the king’s surcoat as the wagon lulled them gently along the road.

Since it was a military campaign in war between kings, bringing a bathtub is too troublesome in spite of Myrcella’s station. The princess had not taken a bath since they left Harrenhal almost seven days ago, but Pia didn’t hear her complain. Highborn ladies often bathe with soap and herbs or oiled perfume, a luxury cannot be obtained by women in Pia’s station. Lady Whent herself used to soak in hot water every evening with lavender oil. She thought the princess would grumble, but the girl seemed relax and calm. 

One time they came by a well in front of a burned inn. Pia asked Walton to halt for a moment. She draws a bucket of water for the princess to wash her face. Myrcella’s face lit up upon seeing the fresh water. “Let me try to draw water too so you can wash your face with me.” she had said.

It was not the first time Myrcella wants to help. Her keenness was so great and she quickly followed the habits of the north and rivermen. Pia taught her how to braid and sometimes they braided each other’s hair.

A thin layer of canvas served as their wagon’s roof. Throughout the day sun rays penetrate into the wagon and at night the wind blows in through the loose fabric. As days went by the march penetrates deeper into the Westerlands border. 

“Where are we?” 

Walton shook his head every time she asked questions. They keep on riding and only stopped to hone the weapons and rest before marching again. 

On the ninth day Walton finally informed that they would stop and set up camp. This time for how long they’d make camp he cannot be sure. She has never set foot outside the Riverlands and now they are surrounded by the mountainous Westerlands.

“I am sensing we will attack soon.” he said.

“Are you going to ride off to battle?” 

“No. King Robb said my place is to protect both of you.”

“I am happy that you do.” Pia admitted, warily glanced to a dozen men scattered not far from the pavilion they shared with Myrcella. She felt safer knowing Walton will be with them.

The princess’s pavilion was set up using two poles and twelve ropes and stakes, the overlapping door closures provide privacy and protection from the wind. She slept side to side with her as Walton took his resting place just outside the entrance, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

It was a blessing that a vernal pond located not far from the princess’s tent. The seasonal pool of water stretches thirty meters wide with a depth of a grown man’s chest. The crystal clear water is cold and the pond is well protected by pine trees and sagebrush. They waited until the sun sets before they told Walton they are going for a bath. The water was colder then, but Pia didn’t want any men to see the princess bathing.

“Whistle if you hear or see anything coming close. And don’t look, I will know if you do!” she warned Walton who rolled his eyes and grumbled as usual.

“Just do your business and be quick about it!” he sat behind a pine tree, his eyes scanned the land before him for any unwanted visitor. “And don’t worry I won’t let anyone came to you.”

 _He is kind of sweet_ , Pia thought. 

She helped Myrcella stripped from her soiled gown, decided to wash it tomorrow since they have made camp and proceed to undress herself. 

Both girls squealed excitedly as the cold water splashed on their skin and Walton had to hushed them. They giggled at his annoyance. Soon they swam into the middle of the pond and soaked their bodies in the cold water. It feels fresh after days of not washing themselves. Finally they can wash up the dirt and grimes from their journey. 

She had passed twenty-five namedays but Pia has never felt so alive than now. Was it because she found a friend in her princess, or was it the warmth she felt in her heart every time she laid eyes on Walton? 

She has been a simple girl; do her work as best as she could and found little solace by sleeping around. 

 _Pretty Pia the washerwoman was a slut who was working her way through every knight she met_. 

What does she has now? Only emptiness and ruined teeth, used and beaten by every knight she knew. Even her father who now rots in hell used to beat and hurt her every night. She feels sorry for herself.

_Broken Pia._

Only two men treated her humanely. The first was her childhood knight, Jaime Lannister. She had came to his bed not long after he surpassed his fever. Crippled and bed-ridden as he was, Jaime still the most handsome man she had ever seen. And she wanted to give him little comfort she could offer; herself. Jaime gently refused and as she laid on top of him, naked. 

 _“Am I not to your liking, m’lord?”_ she asked, her hand covering her mouth. _“You can fuck me and I won’t open my mouth. Not once. I swear I’ll be good to you, m’lord.”_

 _“It’s not that. You are one pretty lad.”_ he said. _“Truthfully. You are beautiful to me, but I can’t. And it should be you to be treated good, not I.”_ Perhaps Jaime saw the fear in her eyes or the little girl longing for a knight inside her, scarred and scared. Yet she appreciate the righteousness in his voice. _“You need sweet words and gentle touches, girl. I am not the man to offer you all of that.”_

She left his chamber heart-broken, but oddly hopeful.

The second was Walton.

Sullen as he was but he made sure the princess and her are safe. He shooed away his bawdy comrades. He took care of her in his own way; helping her carry heavy things, shielding her every time they walked around the castle and now the camp. He knew her previous reputation no doubt, yet Walton never took any liberation on her. She learned that he was a simple man himself who lives to serve his liege. He seemed kind to her and she wondered how does it feel to sleep with a kind man?

“Have you lain with a woman before?” Pia teased him as Walton went with her to fetch the princess’s lunch from the camp’s kitchen.

His face turned red as he glances anxiously around him. Thankfully no one is listening to their conversation. 

“Why the sudden question, woman?!” he replied angrily.

“Do you have wife and children? Bastards?” 

“No, no, and no. Why are you asking?” he grew uncomfortable. 

“Do you like women?”

“I am not answering more questions!” Walton shouted nervously and two or three heads around the bonfire turned to them.

“Do you?” 

“Aye, aye, I like women,” Walton grumbled. 

“I like _you_.” she said honestly. “Do you like me?”

Walton grumbled but she heard him mumbled under his breath, “What kind of imbecile that doesn’t like you?”

Pia smiled without parting her lips, sliced a rabbit’s thigh and put it on her princess’s plate along with some peas and potatoes. She felt Walton’s eyes glued on her back as they walked to Myrcella’s pavillion. She has liked it more, lately. His rare smiles, the muscles she noticed on his chest and biceps when he lifted bucket of water for her… She even treasured his brooding demeanor.

Walton usually stands in front of the overlapping canvas door. But tonight it was not him who stood guard, which meant Walton is resting nearby. The princess’s pavilion was set near an old oak tree—the trunk so big and wide, exceeding the width of three adult men lined up. Its branches are strong and shady. During the day it provides additional protection from the sun above the princess’s tent. Pia found him sat behind the tree trunk, hidden from view.

“Walton?” she called. 

He was sleeping when she peered closer.

“Walton,” she called again, though softly still for the last thing she want is startling him. He stirred. Walton’s eyes lazily started to rolled open, but before she straddling his hips. 

“What—,” he reached out to his sword but her hand stopped Walton’s movement as the other brought his face closer to hers. Walton tried to stand up but sunk dejectedly as their lips met.

“Pia—,” 

She cut him off by kissing his lips again. He kisses back, fiercely at first, before tenderly brushed her lips with his. She half expected him to thrust into her roughly, shove her to the ground and took her right there, but to her surprise Walton let her ride him. His hands crept from her breasts to her skirt, slowly, too slowly for her… 

“The girl…” he started again, glancing towards Myrcella’s tent.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth is with her. We don’t have much time,” she whispered, lifting her own dress to her waist.

Under his gambeson Walton wears chainmail that covered his torso to thighs. The steel was cold to her bare skin as she straddled him and she shuddered. She rubbed the inside of her thigh on Walton’s manhood.

“What are you doing?” suddenly he sounded irritated, withdrawing his hands from her thigh. “I won’t let them touch you again. And you don’t need to give me anything in return.”

“This is not about it. I want you, I want to feel you inside me.”

“Do you want this? With me?” he asked hoarsely. For a moment she pondered what he meant, until she realized that Walton asked for her consent. As an answer she nodded, raising her hips again to sit right above his cock. Beneath chausses and undergarment she could feel him hot and hard. She led Walton’s hand to her chest again. Following her direction he squeezed her breasts and buried his face there. Her breath started to quickens. The bodice she wears has an underbust design with shoulder straps and laces in the front and Walton quickly loosen some of it ties to access her breast. He then fumbled with his breeches and soon Pia felt the tip of his cock on her opening.

“I am too old for you,” Walton suddenly said, “I could be your father.”

She felt angry then; she will not let him reject her. 

“Nonsense. Kiss me again,” 

He complied.

Men she had been with never let her took control; they either fuck her from behind or from above her, pinning her with their weight. It was different with Walton. She slides down onto his lap, taking him entirely inside her. She could feel his satisfying size, hard and wonderful.

He let her in control, asked her consent, but most importantly he thrust into her gently. She was already wet for him. It feels so good. She moans and Walton put a finger on her lips while thrusting into her, gently, ever so gently until she couldn’t take it anymore and bucking her hips faster. He rocked her hips following her cue, nibbling on her neck. Swayed by the sensation, Pia put her arms on Walton’s shoulders.

They were covered by shadows of the night. Bushes shielded them from prying eyes as they tried as quiet as possible making love. The nearby tents were deserted, its occupants busy huddled by the campfire.

“I’m close,” Walton whispered to her ear.

She was, too. Her climax made her shuddered violently and fell limp. Walton caught her, planting kisses on her face, her neck, her breasts… No one ever kisses her like that. She felt safe and happy in his arms. Walton tensed and a second later she felt him swell up and explode inside her.

They sat there for a while, breathing into each other with her still straddling him. He hugged her still when she thought he’d send her away.

“Thank you,” she finally said, kissing his cheek.

Walton looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. She saw tenderness in his grey eyes. It felt like she was whole again, like she was _Pretty Pia_ instead of _Broken Pia._ Perhaps she even sees… _love?_ The warm feeling engulfed her from within is stronger than just admiration or mere lust. But she had never felt love before. 

Whatever it was—the way he look at her and the way his arms took her in—made the little girl in her wanted to continue curled up in Walton’s arms. Several soldiers passed by where they sat, talking noisily among them. She knew she must immediately return to her princess, too.

 _Just a moment,_ she thought as she snuggled to the crook of his neck. 

 

“Pia,” Myrcella called softly. “Are you asleep?”

“No, milady,” she answered, though sleep almost claimed her. “Is something wrong?” She opened her heavy eyelids to look for her princess in the darkness of their tent. “Do you need something, milady?”

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Do you know what is happening out there?” she bit her lip after the question and Pia sensing her distress. 

It was already midnight but the sound outside are still loud; soldiers busy sharpening their weapons, their horses rubbed and saddled, their brunts piercing through the tent. 

“Walton said we’ll attack soon, milady. But I don’t know anything further.”

How long has they make camp, three days? Was it already five days?

They kept her in the wagon and now in her pavillion most of the time for her safety. She is the king’s prized hostage, after all. For days Myrcella only communicated with her and Walton. She now has a habit of wearing the king’s surcoat almost every time, not just when she is sleeping.

“I know you must be worry for your family, milady,” Pia whispered and she thought she saw the girl’s eyes glittered with tears.

“I worry about everyone,” she admitted. “I have not seen the king for days. Is he… allright?”

Pia found the question rather odd but she nodded. “He must be, milady.”

“I can’t sleep. Are we going to war on the morrow?”

“I think they are going to go this very night,” Pia whispered.

“Is King Robb going?”

“He always is, milady…” she answered and Myrcella bit her lip again. 

Pia rose from her sleeping pallet and glanced towards the tent’s entrance to where she saw Walton’s stoic shadow standing outside. She breathed a sigh of relief. 

Since they made love a few nights ago she always wanted to be near Walton. She felt selfish because she’s glad Walton was assigned to be with them at the camp, instead of riding to battlefield.

“Shall I fetch you something, milady?” Pia offered but Myrcella’s hand softly discourage her. 

“No need, Pia. But will you pray with me?”

“Milady?” 

“I wish there’s a weirwood tree nearby.” Myrcella muttered sadly.

She was not sure by her request. She is not a religious person, never be. But Myrcella was already raised from her pallet while pressing Robb’s surcoat onto her nightgown. Pia lit a few candles to provide better lighting.

Afterwards she knelt clumsily following Myrcella’s lead, bowing her head. Their hands intertwined with Pia awkwardly noticed how delicate the princess’s hands are compared to hers. There is no weirwood tree, no statue or image of the seven Gods but Myrcella closed her eyes and a moment later she started to hum.

It was the Song of The Seven. Myrcella’s soft voice fills the tent with sweet melodies, her tune dancing with the glimmering candlelight.

> _The Father’s face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong_
> 
> _he weighs our lives, the short and the long and loves the little children_
> 
> _The Mother gives the gift of life and watches over every wife_
> 
> _her gentle smile ends all strife and she loves her little children_
> 
> _The Warrior stands before the foe_
> 
> _protecting us where e’er we go with sword and shield and spear and bow_
> 
> _he guards the little children_
> 
> _The Crone is very wise and old and sees our fates as they unfold_
> 
> _she lifts her lamp of shining gold to lead the little children_
> 
> _The Smith, he labors day and night_
> 
> _to put the world of men to right with hammer, plow and fire bright_
> 
> _he builds for little children_
> 
> _The Maiden dances through the sky_
> 
> _she lives in every lover’s sigh_
> 
> _her smiles teach the birds to fly and give dreams to little children_
> 
> _The Seven Gods who made us all are listening if we should call_
> 
> _So close your eyes, you shall not fall_
> 
> _they see you, little children_
> 
> _just close your eyes, you shall not fall_
> 
> _they see you, little children_

She felt very peaceful that she wept.


	12. Chapter 12

**THE QUEEN REGENT**

She woke up to a wailing baby only to find she was alone in her bedchamber. Shadows loomed above her bed, tall shapes with chainmail stood at the end of the bed. She had dreamt of babies after Janos Slynt reported the purging; all faceless, screaming and wailing… 

 _Robert’s bastards,_ she thought, spiteful. Their ghosts followed even in her dreams. 

 _Joff was only protecting me from shame,_ she said to herself _. My golden son; born to be King. He’d wipe away all his enemies who challenge his reign. The first was to get rid of all Robert’s bastards; a threat to his power and shame that tarnished her face for years._

Then she remembered the man in her chamber.

“Jaime?” she called.

The voice who answered was not Jaime’s. Well of course not, she shook her head to scatter the remnants of her dreams. Jaime is certainly still in Casterly Rock, with Father, gathering sympathizers and preparing their vassals to defend Joffrey’s throne. Now that pretender kings are looming in every corner of the kingdom.

_No Jaime, but no Robert’s bastards, either. Aren’t you proud of your son’s first decision after being appointed King, my love?_

The sun has just risen. Its golden tinge peeks lazily from behind the horizon. The air was still cold as night, making her tremble under her crimson silk. She loves the color of her house. 

“What is it?” she asked, getting out of the bed. Her servant Senelle quickly put a bedrobe around her shoulder to cover her body.

Ser Mandon Moore has a cup of wine in his hand.

Instead of giving her an answer, he pressed the cup to her. “Please take a sip, Your Grace. And if you will follow me? You are needed in the Council room.”

“So early in the morning? Give me a moment to dress…” she answered, still confused and not fully aware. She sipped the wine anyway.

As she followed the kingsguard to the back of the throne room which led to a room used as council meetings, Cersei took mental note to ask Pycelle for some sleeping draught tonight. To her surprise, the council room was packed. Did she forget there’s a meeting this early?

Petyr Baelish or who they called Littlefinger, the Master of Coin, rose from his seat. He planted a kiss on the back of her hand, murmuring soothing words. Varys the Master Whisperer, too, rose and bowed and led her to a chair next to Tyrion Lannister. She saw Grand Maester Pycelle and the small box on the table. A flagon of wine also present on the table and Tyrion pour a cup for her.

“Not too early for you, I hope.” he said as she took the cup from him.

She grew annoyed. “What is it? Where is Joffrey? Are we under siege already?”

“Ah, not yet, thank the Gods. The King is still sleeping in his chamber,” Tyrion said, looking stern and tense. “We received a message from Riverrun.” when she didn’t say a word, Tyrion pushed the small box on the table in front of her. The wooden box was plain and doesn’t look expensive. No trout carving either if Tyrion said it was sent from Riverrun. She opened the lid.

The face of a roaring lion carved on the necklace was the first thing that caught her eye. Next to the necklace was a strand of golden hair, bound with small straw. The face of her only daughter flashed before her eyes as she abruptly stood up from her chair.

“You said this is from Riverrun?” she shouted. _“RIVERRUN?”_

Tyrion didn’t even flinch. “Yes.” he confirmed. “Robb Stark has Myrcella.”

She must have lurched to the Imp, blind with rage, that it needed ser Mandon and two of Lannister guards to shield him from her claws. Littlefinger held her back as she seething; hatred and fury smoldering. 

“Don’t touch me!” she wrenched away from Littlefinger’s grip. She wants to hurt Tyrion so bad. It was his idea to send Myrcella to Dorne. Now Robb Stark has her? What in seven hells is this, a bad jape? 

Pycelle took a small parchment from inside the box. She didn’t notice the parchment before, too shock upon seeing her daughter’s hair and necklace. He read the letter for her; his ragged old voice made her wonder which breath would be his last.

_To Cersei of house Lannister, Queen Regent of the six kingdoms and her son Joffrey;_

_I, King Robb of house Stark write to you on peaceful terms. I hereby demand the release of my sisters, along with my father’s body and our ancestor’s sword and all other hostages as well as northern people remains who died in King’s Landing. The North will be an independent region, separate from the iron throne. If my peaceful terms are not met I will litter the south with Lannister dead. Princess Myrcella is treated well and provided with every comfort. Harm will not come as long as my sisters and other hostages treated with honor and civil care..._

“That boy has the nerve. _Six_ kingdoms, he dare say, calling our King by his name!” Pycelle slammed the parchment onto the table. The grey direwolf sigil was facing up, mocking her.

_Robb Stark has my daughter. How could this happen?_

They have not received any news from the Dorne. Long journeys often took more time so they still waited for ravens, until the message from Riverrun arrived. Tyrion’s plan was to let the whole King’s Landing watched as Myrcella boarded the royal ship. Ser Arys and some of Lannister guards would then snucked her back to Duskendale and rode to Dorne. It was a rouse to keep Stannis off her track if he has any ill meaning to her children.

 _The lies he sent to all corner of Westeros,_ Cersei grimaced at the memory of another letter she had long burned. _Calling me whore and my children abominations._

She was considered to be one of the most beautiful women in the seven kingdoms, yet Robert was not taken with her beauty. Her husband had called on a dead woman when he did his marital duty. Jaime is the best man she ever knew; gentle, loving, took care of her pleasure and she was proud to have his children. They are not abominations.

“That _boy_ wins every battle he rode in so far. That _boy_ held hostage my niece. That _boy_ is marching south to us.” Tyrion replied austerely and Pychelle grimaced. 

 _“Explain,”_ she hissed. “Myrcella is supposed to be in Dorne. I swear to God I will kill you if these northern savages hurt my daughter…”

“We don’t know why Myrcella strayed too far into the Riverlands. The directions are very different.” the Imp pondered. “No words about ser Arys and her guards as hostages, so let us assume they were all perished. But most importantly, Robb Stark mentioned his _sisters._ A good thing he doesn’t know you’ve lost Arya.”

“Listen, Imp! Robb Stark must have attacked them!” she screamed. “Thanks to your _clever_ plan of sending my daughter! If she stays in King’s Landing—,”

“Then she must be dead when Stannis took the city!” Tyrion shouted back. 

“At least she’d be here with me!” she wants to strangle the stupid Imp, hearing his bones break under her clutch.

“No way had the northern forces reached our border without rousing any attention.” Varys said.

“We should let Lord Tywin know,” Janos Slynt interrupted. She has not paid attention to the bald man who stood at the farthest end of the table. 

Her father was just left the capital with Jaime and left Tyrion acting as Hand of the King in his stead. Tywin felt from the beginning that Stannis Baratheon was a greater danger than all other kings combined. Varys has heard whispers; Stannis is building ships, bringing a shadowbinder from Asshai, massing armies in Dragonstone—it was enough to made Tywin left with Jaime to Casterly Rock to amassed army for Joffrey.

“Raven already on the way to the Rock, thank you,” Tyrion raised an eyebrow to him, sounded displeased. “Bring me the map.” 

A large map of the seven kingdoms was laid on the table. Tyrion looked closely at the territory that is Lord Hoster Tully’s. His index finger skimmed the map, lost in thought. 

“Duskendale,” he muttered to himself, tapping his finger on the map. “Kingsroad,” the finger moves, made a slide further to the middle of the map and now stopped right above _Riverrun._ He was silent a long time as his mismatched eyes skimming the map. His finger moved again, now strayed far to the west. “ _Casterly Rock,”_ he let out a breath, surprised. 

“What is the meaning of this?” she became increasingly impatient. “We should storm Riverrun at this moment! Robb Stark abducted my daughter!”

“Casterly Rock,” Tyrion looked up from the map and their eyes locked. “Myrcella went to Casterly Rock.”

“And why she did that? My daughter was abducted!”

“The timing was right,” Littlefinger chirped in. “Lord Tywin and Lord Commander were in the Rock when the Princess was sent on her way. Has she not pleased of being sent to Dorne? Perhaps, she made a detour.”

The room fell silent. 

Cersei turned to her Imp brother; the mismatched eyes stared back at her unwavering. It has been his plan to ship Myrcella to Dorne, to have her travel so long on dangerous path… It was his fault that Myrcella was taken away from her. If only they live in a world that treated women more than just breeding tool…

She clenched her fist so hard, her nails dug into her flesh.

“One day I pray you love someone so much; when you close your eyes you see her face. I want that for you, oh I do little brother. I want you to know what it’s like to love someone, to truly love someone, before I take her from you.”

“They won’t hurt her. She is just a little girl.” he managed to say. His audacity was unnerving.

“Everywhere in the world, they hurt little girls.” she said.

It was a dream, a bad one. Her drunkard whoring husband was gone, his bastards were gone, but in exchange of her only daughter...

_My sweet, perfect daughter._

Senelle made sure wine are flowing to her chamber. Lancel tried to soothe her pain but instead the stupid lad only made it worst. She sent him away, hating his touch and his poor attempt on top of her. She wants Jaime. She only and truly feels whole when her brother was inside of her. They belong together, the sole reason why she let his seeds quickens.

 _“I warned you, Cersei of house Lannister. Leave King’s Landing tonight for I intends to tell Robert about your scheming. Take the ship to the Free Cities with your children. Save them from Robert’s warth.”_  

_“All Robert Baratheon’s children are not true Baratheon.”_

_No. No. I won’t let them harm my children,_ she angrily tried to shake Ned and Stannis’s words from her memory. _My children are not abominations._

She should wear the armor and made her enemies screamed as she tear their flesh. The heavy velvet and silk on her body suffocate her; she yearns for a dirk, sword and lance, whatever. She’d kill them all. 

Her anger was the same as when she realized Jaime was given swords and bow, while she was not. Her hatred rises again when she remembers her life would be spent with a man she hates, who hits and fucks prostitutes, while Jaime is given Casterly Rock. Her daughter has the same fate; sent by force to marry, so she had to escape halfway.

She wrote to Jaime begging him to save Myrcella. _Robb Stark has our daughter. He cuts her hair, what further harm he’d wreck on her? He killed her sworn shield and guards. I am afraid for her life. Please do something. Do something!_

Cersei stroked the pendant in her hand. The gold felt cold in her palm, the roaring lion chiseled there lost its passion. How long she has not seen her daughter? Myrcella’s wide smiles and her carefree laughs that she used to take for granted made her heart ache even more as she recalled them

 _I have not taught you enough,_ she said to herself. _You were taken too soon from me. My daughter is the young lioness on prairies… Delicate yet fierce, she was so much more than I ever did. She was gentle, trusting and good. From her first breath she was so sweet. When Jaime held her, he said she smiled at him as if she knew who he was. She was nothing like me; no meanness, no jealousy, just.... good._

 _Please save her for me,_ she’d pray to the Seven. Even to Stranger she begged to take Robb Stark’s breath if it meant to bring her daughter back. 

_A mother never loved anyone like her first child, but Myrcella is different. While Joff is robust and Tommen is weak, Myrcella is a better person of herself._

“Your Grace, you summon me?”

She held the necklace tightly in her fist before turning to see her guest.

Sansa Stark stood by her chamber’s door, a girl just a year or two older than her Myrcella. The girl’s auburn hair was arranged up in a complicated style. She herself made sure that Sansa’s servant styled the girl’s hair in the most southern manner as possible. She will not suffer any northern audacity in this city. Sansa was clad in all gold and red; heavy velvet and flowing silk with gemstones and gold jewelry as befits her station of noble birth and Joffrey’s betrothed. 

 _She is a pretty girl_ , Cersei mused as she gestured the girl to join her in the balcony. _How will her brother dressed Myrcella? In rags and wolf’s furs?_ she pondered bitterly. _My daughter looked best in gold, red, and green..._

“Yes, little dove. Come sit.” 

Sansa obeyed. Her hands on her lap trembled slightly as she took the seat. Ser Merryn who escorted her waited in the balcony arched door, sour and sullen under his heavy eyelids as always. She paid no mind to the kingsguard.

“How are you?” she asked and the girl in front of her looked puzzled.

“I—I am fine, Your Grace. Thank you for asking.”

Cersei leaned on her chair as she looked at the view from the balcony. The whole King’s Landing stretches far and wide, thousands of people pressed in its alleys. The poorest of them packed in Flea Bottom, thank Goodness was located on the other side of the Red Keep.

“I was thinking,” Cersei said, still choosing to fixate her eyes on the horizon instead of Sansa. The mere presence of the girl brought her anger and yet she needs to talk to her about this. “What do you think of your brother, Robb Stark?”

“Your Grace. You know I don’t think about him at all. He committed treason and I am loyal to my Joffrey.”

_My Joffrey, you mean._

“I know, Little Dove. Do you know that he took Myrcella hostage? Your brother attacked my daughter.”

“I heard, yes, Your Grace. But I am sure Joffrey will smash his forces.”

“I expected it, yes.” she replied plainly. “I see you are a woman grown now, Sansa. Do you think it is time to wed you to my son?” If she was surprised by her sudden proposal, Sansa didn’t show it. The girl just sits silently, nodding her auburn head. “Shall we send for a royal seamstress to make you a wedding gown?”

“I will be happy to wed my prince, Your Grace.”

 _She is a terrible liar,_ Cersei thought sadly. 

“Tell me, Sansa, and tell me truly. You are treated kindly here. Do you think your brother will do the same to Myrcella?” She finally looked at the girl who squirmed in her seat, as her eyes trying to pierce through her veil of blankness. 

“Yes, Your Grace. Even though he is a traitor but he must treat Myrcella properly.”

_It is not enough._

“I am asking you to write to you brother, Little Dove. Tell him that you are treated kindly here. And to ensure that Myrcella, in return, will be treated with honor.” she pushed the parchment and quill on the table to Sansa. 

The girl’s hand trembled as she raised the quill, dipped it in ink and writing word by words that Cersei says.

_Dear Robb,_

_I beg you again; come to King’s Landing like King Joffrey said. Please stop further strife between our houses. The Lannisters are treating me very well and provide me with every comfort. I hope that you will treat Princess Myrcella with honor and kindness as her family does for me. Your faithful sister, Sansa._

She re-read the letter again until she satisfied. 

“You may go, Little Dove.” 

The girl was already on her feet when she noticed her wobbly walk. Joffrey must have taught her a lesson again, especially after he heard about Myrcella. Robert used to hit her, too. _A King should never lay a hand on his Queen_ , that much she told Joffrey. But Sansa is not yet married to Joff, no. 

She was restless; she commanded Littlefinger and Varys and their spies and whatever tools they have to bring any news on her daughter. Just anything. 

_Where is she now? How did they treat her? Why Robb Stark had not send her any reply?_

Tommen cried all day for his sister and her whining hurt her ears. At ten he is a plump, tender hearted boy. She knew her youngest tried his best but he is not as strong-willed as Joffrey. She had to leave him with his kittens and his servants. Tommen will be fine eventually; other things needed to be tending to.

Joffrey needs regent to rule until he comes of age. She has council meetings to attends to on behalf of her son. Stannis is still a threat that should not ruled out. The last letter Jaime wrote to her was that sixty thousand men-at-arms marched from Casterly Rock to siege Riverrun and torched the Riverlands. It was about time, since the Stark boy didn’t send her any reply. She was satisfied, then. 

_Fine, let them burn. How dare him._

Just when she think it couldn’t getting any worse, Robb Stark captured Jaime and destroyed his army on the Green Fork. Her wrath was violent when she received the news; no wine in this world could ease her pain. Pycelle prescribed her more sleeping potions to help her calm down. Their forces was scattered and cannot reach King’s Landing. Kings were in every corner in the realm. 

“How could that boy defeat sixty thousand Lannister’s soldiers?” she screamed as her goblet flung from her hand to the wall.

They are surrounded by enemies. 

Tywin’s army was cut from the Crownlands by Robb. Stannis has landed in Maidenpool, taking Harrenhal and more than half of Renly’s army after he died. The blade that cut through Renly’s throat was a blessing from the Gods. The only thing they gained from this mess was fewer kings and the Tyrells...

Now even those over-smelling roses give pains despite the thousands army they brought to Joffrey. She hates how that little bitch Margaery bat her eyelashes to her son, the deep plunge of her gowns meant to attract the attention of men and women alike. The little bitch’s laugh was insult to her ears. Yet she has to bear them for the sake of the army her father, Mace Tyrell, brought.

_Scheming roses, who married off their daughter to Renly, only to run back to them when Renly was dead. I will never trust those roses._

She instructed every smith in King’s Landing to labor night and day making armors. Soldiers were sent from Rosby and Stokeworth and surrounding areas so they needed the best armor and swords. Alchemists were arranged in the dungeon to manufacture vast amounts of wildfire, while the City Watch is tripled in size. Stags and wolves are coming, but the lions will be prepared. With Tywin’s army still restrained in the west they must strengthen their defenses as foremost as possible. It was the only thing she and the Imp are agreed upon. Catapults, scorpions, bows, arrows, steel, swords, horses—she wanted to be ready when they come. 

Unbeknownst to others she has also keep a small vial of Essence of Nightshade. She hope she’d never has to use the poison, but she won’t let anyone made her die miserably should the battle lost and the city falls. What happened to Elia Martell will not befalls on her. 

And speaking of the Martells, she was informed Dorne was not happy. They were promised a princess but no princess came. They have not brought to the iron side of this war. Tyrion sent Littlefinger and some lords to meet Prince Doran, yet rejection and closed doors were obtained. It was Oberyn Martell, Prince Doran’s brother, who met them at Sunspear with spear in his hand and denied them the guest right.

_“Do you know why all the world hates a Lannister? You think your gold and your lions make you better than everyone. We don’t trust Lannisters and their creatures anymore. A Baratheon-Lannister princess was promised for my nephew. Where is the promised bride?”_

Without Myrcella, they can kiss the already fragile Martell-Lannisters alliance goodbye. 

The plump eunuch informed her that Stannis and the Stark boy were on the move separately. His powdered face betrayed no emotion as he told her this. The outrageous colored damask he wears smelled of lilac when she brought her head closer to Varys to hear the information. They were in Joff’s chamber.

“No sighting of Princess Myrcella among Stannis’s forces.”

“Do you think the boy took her with him?”

Varys bowed, “It occurred to my mind, yes, Your Grace.”

“We knew that our men killed Stannis’s scouts just this morning.” she pondered. 

“Stannis will be here soon, yes.”

“And does my imp brother have anything to say about it?”

“The Hand is at the street of steel this very moment, Your Grace.”

“Ah, the iron giant chain?”

“Yes.”

“Jaime… any news about him?”

“My little bird only saw a glimpse of him, once. Chained inside a barred wagon.”

 _My Jaime is a lion, a dangerous one,_ she thought proudly. _No chain can hold a lion as strong as Jaime for long. He will find a way to come back to me and bring our daughter back…_

“Where is Grandfather?” Joffrey called from his chair. The new crossbow he played has a golden lion, the sigil of house Lannister, on the prod.

“Lord Tywin is still at Casterly Rock, Your Grace,” Varys answered.

“He took some time to gather men for me,” Joff snapped. He reloaded a red bow inside the lever. “Now my enemies are marching to steal my crown! Where is he? Did he capture my usurper uncle Stannis? Tell him to send Robb Stark’s head so I can give it to Sansa!”

“Sansa is your betrothed, Your Grace.” she said, “It is not wise to do so, especially when they have your uncle _and_ your little sister.”

“My stupid uncle and my useless sister,” Joffrey sneered. “My father won’t let himself captured by his enemies!”

Her hand lashed out without her noticing and slapped the side of Joffrey’s face. Both of them were surprised and she could hear Joff whimpered. Her son touched his cheek, red with the mark of her palm where she struck him. Joffrey’s eyes flared like wild animals and for a moment Cersei thought he would aim the crossbow at her. It was loaded.

Varys bowed low, eyes on the floor upon seeing their surprising exchange.

“Hit me again and that will be the last thing you do, mother.” Joff snarled.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” she managed to say, though curtly.

Joffrey might be strong willed but not the brightest. When he was supposed to keep Ned Stark alive in the dungeons, he chopped off his head for mere public entertainment. When he supposed to send ravens and asked for parley or whatever thing they do to exchanged hostages, he did nothing. 

She had begged Joff to send raven back to Robb when he intended to send the Stark boy his sister’s severed hand as a warning. Thank the Seven the whole council opposed to Joff’s idea. She even considered to write Robb Stark herself again, even after the boy didn’t reply her first letter, accepting his peace terms as long as Myrcella returned to her. Joff and Tywin would have none of it.

Finally when Jaime was captured, the Imp arranged for a delegation to deliver Ned Stark’s bones and his Valyrian sword in good faith to asked Robb to withdraw his troops. They have not heard from the delegation yet. Whether they reached the Stark boy in time or no, they didn’t know. War keeps on raging with each passing day Jaime and Myrcella’s lives at stake. And now Vary’s little bird said their enemies are on the move again. They are still cut from Tywin’s army.

_How many moons have passed since they woke her up that fateful day?_

_How long she have to wait until she holds her daughter again and to feel Jaime fulfilling her?_

_How could she trust these stupid men milling about before her?_

_They have power only because of the cock between their legs._

She retreated from Joffrey’s chamber with Varys on her heel, as they made their way to the Tower of Hand. Senelle confirmed that Tyrion has come back from the street of steel. He sat behind the Hand’s desk as she strode into his solar, not bothering to knock. She is the Queen Regent, after all.

“Ah, Sister, Lord Varys,” Tyrion inclined his head but not raising from his seat. “What do I have the honor of being visited by you two?”

“You told me you will free Jaime. Where is he?” she demanded.

“With Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark, safe and under guard.”

“That was not funny. How could he let himself be captured by a boy?” she felt her sadness and anger swelling inside her but trying to keep herself calm. “And where is Father? What took him so long to come? I trusted him. Yet he ran back to Casterly Rock, sitting idly.”

“Look again, sweet sister.” Tyrion replied, trying to smile reassuringly. “If those usurpers _took_ our ancestral seat, what good bound to happen to our vassal? He might look like he sits idly; but yet, wars are won through paper and quills too. Sooner or later the lions will have them,”

“Are you sure, Imp? While Father plays lion through whatever you called it with the Stark boy, Stannis is marching up the Kingsroad! He could be at our gates any day now! Didn’t you see the heads of his scouts on the ramparts?”

“The city will not fall a day.” Tyrion sighed, massaging his temples.

“My little birds said that in less than fortnight, Stannis will be here. Not to mention that he and the Stark boy struck some kind pact.”

“Ah, I bet so. His father supported Stannis as heir to the throne, so why the son not supported the man his father died for?”

“I prayed to the Stranger to take Robb Stark’s breath. Put some arrow or dagger to him, too, just like Renly.” she said coldly. “We should… send another assassin.”

“Sister, while it’d make our enemy fewer, but assassin is expensive. You’ll need to pray harder to the Stranger for Stannis, too.” Tyrion scratched his beardless chin. 

Her father, her brother and her had different opinions on whose King was the most dangerous opponent. While Tywin claimed it was Stannis who at the time only had Dragonstone on his side, Tyrion believed Renly had the best bet to defeat them. The youngest, more popular Baratheon’s marriage to Margaery Tyrell secured the wealthy of the Reach and cut the food supply coming to King’s Landing. Their battles in the Riverlands made both Robb’s and Tywin’s side lost men. This made Renly the king with the most powerful troops.

Soon even Tywin was forced to see that while Robb Stark ravaged their troops in the Westerlands, Renly starved them in the capital. Tyrion suspected Renly deliberately kept them starving and desperate that the inhabitants of King’s Landing, fed up with Joffrey’s cruelty, will open the city gates for Renly’s troops. The possibility sums up to Renly arriving in King’s Landing when the people’s disgust reached its peak. Their forces were killed by Robb Stark on battlefield before reaching them in time, exhausted and spent while Renly, thanks to the Tyrells and Storm End’s vassals, had nearly one hundred thousand fresh and well-fed men-at-arms. 

Assassin do come at a dear price. They had their one chance and they used it on Renly. She doesn’t know what it cost Tywin Lannister for such act, but the outcome was as intended. Renly’s forces split up; they have the Tyrells and their army now. The Capital is saved, for now, from hunger and desperation. Most Storm End’s vassal went to Stannis but it was pretty much logic and expected since he become the last Baratheon with Renly’s death. 

“What will you do then?” she sneered. “Sat idly like father?”

“No,” Tyrion sounded insulted. “I was just writing a letter when you came in uninvited.” he raised an eyebrow to her as he folds the parchment in front of him. “Like I’ve said before, wars are won through paper and quills, too.”

“What did you write? To whom?” she demanded, but Tyrion only _tsk-_ ed and fold the letter. He collected the rest of papers scattered on his desk, throwing them all into a wooden box. For an instant Cersei thought she saw some golden kraken on a black field in one of those papers.

“I have an idea,” Varys chimed in softly and two golden heads turned to him. “If not assasin, why not send a little bird?”

“A spy?” she snatched the idea. “Yes, yes, why not? We can send someone to pierced into  Stannis and those northern savages!”

“Not Stannis, but the Young Wolf.”

“The Young Wolf?”

“Robb Stark, Your Grace. They called him the Young Wolf.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “Aye, aye, they say he rides into battle on the back of a giant direwolf.”

“So he is, my lord,” Varys bowed.

“And your idea?” she asked impatiently. 

“Well, right now he is ravaging your father’s army in the Westerlands, Your Grace. Put a spy, if possible with a background or knowledge of northern culture, into Robb Stark’s circle. I heard he attacked Ashemark. Lord Damon Marbrand was slaughtered.”

“That was unfortunate. He was always been nice to me.” Tyrion said sadly. “His son and heir, Addam, was good friends with Jaime. I hope he survives.”

“Ser Addam was with Lord Tywin in the Rock, my lord.” Varys answered.

“Surely no one expected this Robb Stark to be a _very_ capable commander.” Tyrion sighed.

“Father will beat him. I am sure he will.” she said stubbornly.

“Come to think about it, our beloved father is not known for his strategy, but to his ruthless.” 

“What do you mean? You dare say he is not capable to beat the Stark boy?”

“No, I did not say that,” Tyrion looked exhausted. “What I was saying, father was known to have— _ah, different_ —approaches. Remember the Tarbecks? The Reynes?”

“Everyone in the realm knew it, my lord,” Varys smiles dryly. “Who has not hear _the Rains of Castemere_?”

She knew the look on the imp’s face—how his eyes furrowed on his ugly head, the mismatched eyes narrowed to a point in the distance. His fat little finger tapped on the table as he thinks.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

She hates it.

“Well?”

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

“I am talking to you, imp!”

“And I heard you the first time.” Tyrion looked annoyed. “One of us got to think, all right?”

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

“I will write to father.” he said suddenly and without expecting his visitors to react, Tyrion swiftly pulled a new parchment.

“You are never close to father,” she scoffed. “Making you Hand in his stead doesn’t mean you are valuable enough in his eyes. Your brother and your niece were taken hostage, thanks to your plans. I’m getting fed up with your _clever_ plans as long as they don’t bring Jaime and Myrcella back! Do you even love your family, Imp?”

“Why, sister, you wound me.” Tyrion sighed. “I do love my family even you when don’t believe so. Although you are very annoying, but I admit the love you have for your children is a redeeming quality. I promise you; father and I will make it right.”

“My lord Hand is Lord Tywin’s son.” Varys chimed in. “Our enemies will soon make a mistake, no doubt.”

“What about the spy?”

“You will have your spy, sister.” Tyrion said impatiently. “Lord Varys will see to it, won’t you my lord?”

Varys bowed. “My pleasure, my lord.”

“I want full report on this.”

“And you shall have it. Now if I may return to my work?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow.


	13. Chapter 13

**MYRCELLA**

The mood was high and hot for the victory they achieved last night. She could only close her eyes before dawn, but was awakened shortly by moans from outside the tent. She was getting used to Pia’s activities when the servant thought she was sleeping. At first Myrcella was confused when she woke up and found Pia’s pallet empty. 

Muffled voices from outside the tent led her out under the oak tree where she found them. For a moment she thought Walton was hurting Pia, because the man’s hand was between the woman’s legs and Pia was moaning, low on her throat. When they started kissing, she looked away and ran back to her tent, pretending to sleep when Pia finally slipped into her pallet. 

Myrcella lay restlessly on hers, tossing from left to right. Morning sunlight began to emerge; she had missed another sleep again. She pressed Robb’s surcoat over her thin ivory nightgown and peeked out of the tent. Walton and other guards were nowhere to be seen. Pia snores softly from their adjoining sleeping pallets.

The atmosphere was still dark and cold, gloom coming up in the sky as the sun barely risen. The world was silent finally; the leftover of campfire only emitted smoke from the ash heap. Men succumb to their fatigue after battle; dying or carrying whatever they could from the battlefield. The tension she felt earlier dissolved into mist. She was confused at how quiet it became, only few hours back she heard them singing, screaming, yelling, hailing...

She was not sure where to go. It’s been a long time since she’s been out in the open this early. When she stepped out of her tent and no one shouted at her—not even one was seen near her—she thought of running away. 

Robb has taken Ashemark. 

She didn’t really know about the castle or the surroundings area, rather than house Marbrand was loyal vassal of house Lannister. Lord Marbrand was slain in battle and his castle looted. If she was fast enough and the men are still sleeping perhaps she could reach the nearest holdfast and announced who she was… Then they could take her to Casterly Rock where Lord Tywin is.

She tentatively took a step further from her pavilion. 

_No._

_I will not run again. The last time I escaped I caused ser Arys and his men’s deaths._

“Walton?” she called meekly, afraid she’d awaken other men than her surly guard. 

No answer came. 

 _I will just visit the pond,_ Myrcella decided.

The crystal clear water reflects the morning sun. Rays of light touched her skin, warm like a lover’s kiss. Myrcella crouched on the edge of the pool, watching her reflection on the calm surface of the water. Her golden hair shone under the sunlight even though in messy state. The morning breeze didn’t help either but tousled it evenmore. Pia and her mother would be crazy if they find out she in the open in such condition. She doesn't care; whether her hair neatly combed or braided has become less important to her now.

She thought of the faceless prince she was betrothed to. Oft times it was Robb Stark’s face that becomes the prince’s. Could she be happy, safe and warm in Dorne if she didn’t run away? She doesn’t even know the prince’s name... Although she was ashamed to admit it, but Robb was in her mind more than she liked.

 _Is he kind?_ She wondered, thinking of the Dorne prince. 

_Does he have a contagious laugh?_

_Is he wise, is he honorable?_

_Will I grow to love him?_

_Does he grow to love me?_

Then the reflection of her wild appearance made her cringe. She looks exhausted and her hair sticks out in all direction.

_If he sees me like this, does he still want me?_

_What if I never met Robb Stark again?_

Her brows furrowed. _Why am I even thinking about Robb?_

She remembers how she was first introduced to him. It happened a long time ago it seems, like in another lifetime, when King Robert came to visit Eddard Stark in Winterfell. Robb was standing between his lord father and his siblings, already tall and looking solemn. She remembered that she had thought Robb was a handsome young man. They didn’t interact much apart from formal greetings when passing each other. Once or twice she remembered she had thought Robb looking far more regal than Joffrey, the crowned prince. She watched him sparring with his brothers, laughing with his sisters, a few times talking with guards around Winterfell. Both were heirs, but when they were put together she could see how different Robb and Joffrey are...

Praying for Robb’s safety has made her uneasy lately. What should she pray to end the War of the Five Kings? Was she wrong to hope that Robb would not be injured in this war, a war that was precisely against her own family?

“Hello.”

She startled and almost fell into the water. Robb Stark stood on the opposite of the pool, laughing.

“Did I surprise you, Princess?”

She opened her mouth but no words came out. Instead, she remembered how unpresentable she was; her hair was tousled and unruly, her form-fitting nightgown was improper in front of a grown man, let alone a King. Myrcella stood up to pressed the surcoat tighter onto her, trying to cover herself. It was somewhat easy because the surcoat is bigger and covers better than any robe she has ever worn.

Robb’s face grew serious. 

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to laugh at you.” he said. His long legs strode around the pool to reach her side.

“Stop!” she shouted unconsciously, burying her face in her hands.

“What—why?” Robb was stunned by her reaction.

“I—I am not presentable enough,”  She felt ugly. No one ever seen her like this.

“Are you kidding me?” he pulled her hands gently from her face. Myrcella looked at him with uncertainty. “There you are. You looked fine to me.”

His smile was gentle; she wondered how many maidens had fallen for his smiles back then in Winterfell. She realized that Robb’s hand was still holding hers and she hurriedly pulled her hand away. 

“What are you doing out here this morning? Where are your handmaiden and your guards?” 

“Your Grace, I—,” she turned her head sideways to avoid looking at him. Being caught unruly and wearing his surcoat are enough embarrassment for a lifetime. 

“If you don’t answer I may suspect you plotting something.” he tried to jest but when she failed to respond again, Robb grew even more serious. “Are you alright?” he looked earnestly concerned.

“I—,” _Say something!_

“Myrcella?”

“I… I just wanted to wash my face.” she said timidly.

Robb raised an eyebrow. “You stared at the water so long I thought you fell asleep.”

“I… was just thinking.”

“A coin for your thought?” he smirked.

“Why are you here, Your Grace?” she asked him suspiciously.

“Perhaps I need to wash my face too.” he said casually.

“Liar.”

“You dare calling me a liar?” 

“I just did, Your Grace.”

Robb laughed. His auburn hair was longer, messier, like he also just rose from his bed. For the first time he was out of his armor, only wearing a white doublet and dark wool breeches. The doublet has a front opening fastened with buttons, the top two opened and she could see the shadow of his chest hair. His house sigil was sewn at the collar of the doublet. 

“Truth is, I am looking for you. I never visited your pavilion before and thought I’d see how you were doing. You have the best part of these woods.” Robb gazing to their surroundings. When finally his bright blue eyes find her face again, her heart beats a little faster. “How are you, Princess?”

“You came here just to ask how I am, Your Grace?” 

“Yes.”

“And what should I feel?”

“I don’t know… _hate_ , perhaps? Anger. Grudge. Anything. I just took Ashemark from your Grandfather. Once we plundered the land we’ll move further west.” The blue eyes pierced into her, waiting for her response.

“I don’t know what should I feel.” she answered honestly. “Am I sad? Yes, I think of my uncle Jaime all the time. Is he alright? Will he survived? I missed my mother, too. Am I angry? Yes, for thousands of lives gone because of this war. I am angry because my brother started it. Am I afraid? All the time, Your Grace; for you, for my little brother Tommen… I fear the future only brings more pain and deaths to our realm. So tell me, Your Grace, what should I feel?” 

_Even I am confused of my own feelings._

“You can start by hating me.” Robb offered.

She shook her head. “Do you want me to hate you?”

“I prefer your trust than your hate.”

She looked away from him to the crystal clear pond. He confused her. 

 _Why are you here,_ she wanted to ask him again but didn’t dare. The words went dead at the tip of her tongue. _Do you want to hurt my feelings by informing that we’re going further west to my Grandfather, killing his people and plundering his land? Why are you taking me with your army?_ So many questions running in her head.

“I don’t want to hate you.” she confessed.

“That was a relief. I don’t want to be hated by you.”

“Is that what you want, a King loved by all?”

“I swore to myself that I’d be a good King.” Robb spoke softly but his voice vibrates full and deep. His face lights up. “Strong, loyal and just to my friends. Brave when I have to face my enemies. The old Gods help me, why would anyone wants to be King? I told myself every night as I take off that heavy crown, _‘be as honorable as Father.’”_   Robb’s blue Tully eyes seemed ablaze with fire she never seen before. She had never realized to be so drawn to his face like that. 

“You are the best King I’ve known so far.” she admitted shyly. 

“Flattering.” Robb smirked. The dimple on his right cheek greeted her. “Your uncle the Imp summoned my cousin Robin Arryn to be fostered in King’s Landing. A Kingsguard named Meryn Trant also appointed as Warden of the East, do you know him?”

“He did? Ser Merryn?” she was surprised; wardenship is tied to hereditary lordship, as far she knew. Her Grandfather is warden of the west, as did Robb is warden of the north before he was crowned King… “Can a Kingsguard become warden?”

“Apparently they could. Ravens were sent from King’s Landing to announced it. Doesn’t matter; naming this Trant warden only to command the Vale’s forces. That’s it. He’s not given the Eyrie, not the whole or bits of the Vale. Your brother only made him able to command its lords and forces during the war.”

He looks upset but she didn’t blame him. When he bent down to pick up a pebble on the ground, Robb groaned and straightened right away. 

“A—are you okay? You are not hurt, aren’t you?” she approached him, worried.

Robb nodded. “I am fine. This is nothing. Lord Marbrand’s blacksmith hide behind the dais when we charged into the main hall.” Robb said, “The man swung his sledge hammer and I received a blow on the side of my torso.” he shrugged. 

The way he indifferently told her as if they are talking about what to eat for supper made her afraid. She was so shocked that she blurted out the first thing came to her mind, “Prince Rhaegar Targaryen died from blows to the chest in the Trident!”

Robb grinned. “The blacksmith was not King Robert and his warhammer.” Myrcella glared at him incredulously. “Why, are you worried about me?” his grin was devilish. 

She felt her cheeks grew hot when she realized he was teasing her.

“Of course I do. What if he meant to aim to your head? Did you even wear a helmet? I never saw you wearing one! And what about your armor? Does your armor protect you enough? Why are you northerners never wearing a full bodied armor? Why are you even at the forefront of the battle?” she stopped her rant when Robb threw his head back and laughs heartily. In the midst of his laughter he grimaced and held the side of his injured torso, still chuckling.

She tried to sound fierce but her voice betrayed her feelings. “Do you need something to ease the pain? Is there any maester to look at your injury?”

Robb stopped laughing. “I am fine, Princess. There was a maester in Lord Marbrand’s castle but he jumped from his tower and died. Besides, this is war. A little bruise does not make me have to lay in bed. I’ve got worse training under ser Rodrik, our master-at-arms. There were lots of my men sustained worse injuries, too.”

He squatted carefully and picked up a pebble to threw into the pool. The water rippled as the small rock hit the surface of the water, sending ripples extending throughout the pond.

“No need to worry, Princess. I will not die. Not before I make sure you are safe with your kin.”

“I—,” she didn’t know what to say at that.

“Aren’t you close with Joffrey?” he asked, picking up another pebble.

“Not really. Mother was always by his side. I—I rather not deal with Joff. I have my little brother Tommen and my uncles...” Joffrey’s face flashed in her mind. 

 _Joffrey used to find her when she was alone in her chamber…_  

Myrcella looked away, feeling sick as she reminded of Joffrey’s scornful smile. Fortunately Robb didn’t seem to notice.

“Tommen, I remembered him,” Robb nodded. “He is the same age of Bran, I think.”

“They are, yes, Your Grace.” a smile came to her face as she remembered her young brother. The better, kind and loving brother. “He will be eleven soon.”

“You missed him.” he observed her.

“I do.” her smile fade when sadness pierced her heart. “I believe you feel the same to your siblings, Your Grace.”

Robb threw another pebble into the pool. He was silent for a while, staring at the rippling water. 

“I am.” he replied. “My brother Jon—,” he paused for a moment as if surprised why he speak of the topic further. He cleared his throat and rose carefully, eyeing her. “My brother Jon tried to desert the Night’s Watch when he heard about our father. His friends prevented him from doing so. But they are not just his friends; they’re his brothers of the Night’s Watch. If not I’d have my brother by my side now.”

 _Jon Snow,_ Myrcella recalled of a handsome, dark haired brooding man of Robb’s age, Lord Eddard’s natural son. 

“I am sorry to hear that.” she didn’t know why Robb was telling her about it.

“Don’t be,” Robb replied. “He must do his duty, as I did mine. I do plan to take Jon back—if he is willing—to Winterfell. I will offer the Night’s Watch five hundred men to man their castles against the wildlings, in exchange of Jon.”

“That was generous of you, Your Grace.” 

“The last time I saw my siblings was in Winterfell. Rickon was only five; he cried and clung to my leg wherever I go. _Everyone left,_ he said. He didn’t want me to go south. Bran was adapting with his new wheelchair designed by our maester. Maester Luwin wrote he is a natural leader. _‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,’_ Father taught me. And Bran did a good job.” Robb looked at her but his eyes distant. She knew Robb was looking at the gray castle of Winterfell and imagining a time that would not return. “And my sisters—,” he continued, clenching his fists. “Arya was not happy to be taken to King’s Landing. I should have told Father not to take her too. Now she is missing. You saw yourself what they did to Sansa. When we were little, Sansa and Jon and I loved to play maiden, dragons and knight. I was her favorite knight. Not Jon, not Bran. _Me.”_ he let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even know why I am telling you these...”

She bit her lip and wanted to say that Robb could let go of his anger at her; hit her or lock her up, chain her feet and hands, or whatever it needed… but she doesn’t dare. She remembered vividly the last time Robb was offended when she asked him if he intended to hurt her. She will not question him about it again. He wants her to trust him…

 _But can you trust the enemy?_ the voice at the back of her head came again.

“The fact is, I don’t hate you.” Robb exhales.

“But I am a Lannister.”

The sun rose higher and faintly she could hear the sound of people starting to wake up. 

“You are not a Lannister to me.” Robb said softly. “You will see your brother Tommen again, Princess, as I will see mine.”

She heard Pia called to her from afar. Leaves rustled as Pia and Walton trying to walk as fast as possible towards them. She could hear them hurrying but they were not yet visible through the trees and sagebrush.

“We will talk again soon.” Robb said. “Now go to your handmaid and guards, Princess. They must be worry to find you gone. If I was them, I’d be too.” the deep dimple appeared on his right cheek again when he smiles.

She obeyed and run turned towards Pia’s voice. The servant was indeed worried. When she looked back to see him, Robb was no longer by the pool.

 

\--

“Do we have a maester in the camp?”

“Not that I know of, milady. Qyburn went with King Stannis to take care of your uncle. And he is not a maester either. We do have some healers for the wounded soldiers, though.” Pia answered. “Are you sick, milady?”

“No, but… King Robb told me he was injured by a blow from a sledge hammer…”  She bit her lip. “Has anyone treated the injury?”

“I supposed, milady. I saw the King earlier when I fetched us our lunch. He seemed fine.” Pia answered, as the servant combed her hair.

She really hoped so. Robb has won yet again, but at what cost? If Robb and Stannis win the War of the Five Kings, what will happen to her, to Joffrey and to Tommen as heirs to the Iron Throne? And if Robb loose—she blinked away the tears that suddenly filled her eyes, afraid Pia would notice.

_Why does my heart hurt?_

_Good men die; so why the thought of Robb dying makes me so sad?_

Pia took out a canary yellow dress made of thick cotton from the clothing chest. There was hardly any ornament on the modest dress, except the embroidered dandelions in silver and white at the waist. Pia helped her into the dress after securing her long locks into a simple sideways braid, resting on her left shoulder. The servant and her guards seemed busy since noon; she sensed they will break camp soon, perhaps after Robb made sure there was a place for them to live as they entered deeper into her Grandfather’s territory.

Myrcella rarely saw Robb around the camp, other than because she herself could not walk far from her own pavillion. She had to rely on Pia or Walton to ask about Robb. Walton wasn’t too happy and looked annoyed every time she asked. Pia replies happily, sometimes adding some information she hears from the cook or squires; _King Robb is good. I met him and Olyvar Frey. We will move again soon. I saw his squire fetched him this venison soup just now…_ even the slightest information about him brings smile to her.

“Milady, ser Patrek is here to see you.”

Myrcella rose from her chair to greet the knight. Patrek Mallister smiled broadly at her; his shoulder-length brown hair tightly secured to a neat ponytail. He wears his armor, dyed purple with the sigil of his house—a silver eagle—on the breastplate. 

“Good afternoon, Princess.” he bowed to her. 

“Ser Patrek, it is good to see you.” she greeted the knight who used to be one of her guard. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Ah, I was just walking passed your pavilion when I remember you liked to take a walk in the afternoon.” the knight replied, still all smiles. “I thought I can take you for a walk. Nothing fancy, I fear, just around the camp.”

She glanced at Walton, who shrugged. 

“I’d like that, ser. Thank you.”

Ser Patrek offered his arm and she took it. He led her around the camp, showing where the cooks skinned the game they caught that day, and tents used by the smiths forging armors. He was courteous with her. Their conversation was mostly about Seagard, house Mallister’s fortress in the Riverlands, and about his father Lord Jason Mallister who was currently there. Several times ser Patrek asked about her; _what did she do during the day? Is she comfortable enough being in a military campaign?_

“Not much,” Myrcella answered, blushing. “Just waiting, sitting, talking with Pia… Sewing. Sometimes I read.”

“That sounds nice. You must be talented at all of those. The sewing in particular. Someday I’d like to wear your favor, Princess.”

“Ser?” she was unsure. She faintly remembered a handkerchief she meant to give to Robb. She had no chance to give it to him directly, so she left it to Lady Catelyn. 

_I already gave my favor to another._

Ser Patrek smiles at her. He patted her hand that was still holding his arm. 

“It was a good thing that the Young Wolf brought you with us. You are safer here, than with Stannis.”

“Stannis… He—he is my uncle,” she replied meekly. “He won’t hurt me.”

Ser Patrek only nodded again and they resumed walking. The wind was blowing hard that afternoon. She shivered under Robb’s surcoat. Several times she felt ser Patrek’s gaze on her. It made her somehow uncomfortable. 

They just walked through logistic tents when she saw Robb in the distance.

Robb was standing with his back to them, talking with some soldiers. She couldn’t hear them, but she would recognize his auburn curls anywhere. Her heart flutters even when she only saw his back.  Robb’s hair was a mess in the wind; he wore his wolf-fur coat, almost identical with the one he gave her. Her heart bulged happily feeling like she was part of his pack. Which was weird, because she was supposed to be a lion, not a wolf...

Ser Patrek mumbled something beside her.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say, ser?” she reluctantly tore her gaze from Robb’s back.

“I said you looked beautiful.”

That remark taken her unexpectedly. “Thank you, ser.” 

“If I had the opportunity, I’d be happy to guard you again. When the war is over come to Seagard. We had this beautiful cliff with a view to the Narrow Sea. You will love it.”

“It’d be nice, ser.” she doubted she’d ever visit Seagard.

“Yellow is your color, Princess.” his eyes beamed at her. “I believe you’d look as lovely in purple. Your coat though…” he narrowed his eyes at the wolf fur on the collar of her coat. “...very much nothern.”

“Oh...” 

“It was because the coat was mine.” came Robb’s voice, deep and cold.

“Your Grace.” ser Patrek dipped his head.

“What are you doing?” Robb asked, his eyes glared at her directly.

Myrcella pulled her hand from ser Patrek’s arm. 

Too late, Robb already seen it.

“I—,” she opened her mouth to answer but ser Patrek was faster. 

“She used to take a walk in the afternoon, back then in Riverrun, Your Grace. I took her around the camp. I think the Princess needs to get some air.” ser Patrek gazed at her, smiling from ear to ear. The smile died on his lips as soon as he caught Robb’s eyes.

For a moment she thought she heard Robb snorted. When her eyes found the courage to look at Robb, he was already staring at her. He looked somehow irritated. His jaw hardened while the blue eyes drill right into her soul. Just by that Robb made her feel guilty for some reason and she hated the feeling.

“Stop looking at her.” Robb snapped and ser Patrek looked baffled at the sudden ire. “Take her back!”

All eyes now looking at them. Sheepishly ser Patrek bowed and excused himself. 

“Wait,” Robb called just when ser Patrek offered her his arm again. “I will walk the Princess myself.”

More confused than ever, ser Patrek turned red and he hurriedly retreated to make way for his king. 

At first Myrcella was afraid when she saw Robb’s hardened glare, but she stepped beside him anyway. He took long step back towards her pavilion. Walton and Pia, both looked confused, walking behind them in respectful distance. Just this morning Robb looked at ease, but now she was afraid she might offend him in any way possible.

“Your Grace? Did… did I offend you?” her voice barely a whisper but Robb heard her alright. 

“Am I allowed to be upset that he was hanging all over you?” he shot back, rather coldly. 

She was confused by his remark. Robb’s quick, long steps made her overwhelmed, especially because of her long dress and uneven terrain. 

 _He really is angry,_ she realized with a sense of sadness.

“I am sorry if I offended you in any way,” she huffed, trying to follow his footsteps. “I didn’t think leaving my tent made you angry. Forgive me, Your Grace.”

He didn’t answer and didn't even slow down. They quickly returned to her pavilion. Suddenly Robb grabbed her arm and turned towards Pia.

“Wait outside!” he barked, before pushing Myrcella into the tent.

“I am sorry!” she gasped as he almost shoved her; the grip on her arm hurting. “It won’t happen again. Please don’t complicate ser Patrek!”

If Robb had been annoyed before, now he looks even furious.

“Why do you care?” he demanded. “I am _his_ King.”

 _What is happening to him?!_ Myrcella looked back deviantly at him. 

“Didn’t you just say this morning that you want to be a good King? Or was that a lie?”

Robb glared and released his grip on her arm. For the first time he seemed to be lost at words. Myrcella won’t let him off easily. Although she was shorter than Robb, but she stood as straight as possible despite having to look up to frowned into the man’s eyes.

“Ser Patrek was just being courteous. He only took me for a walk—,”

“Stop saying his name.” he hissed. 

“Are you going to punish him for letting me take a short walk out?” she almost shouted in desperation, afraid to what he’d do to the knight. 

Robb gritted his teeth. “Don’t leave your tent for any reason.” he fumed, pulling her closer with bruising grasp again. She breathed sharply to feel how strong Robb’s grip was, and the warm body-heat emerged from him.

“I won’t.” she sobbed, hating herself for feeling so weak. She was terrified if anyone was hurt again because of her, whatever the reason. “Please forgive me. Don’t hurt ser Patrek.”

“Stop crying!” he sounded irritated, which make her tears flows even harder. “Stop crying, please. Please.” he was almost pleading now. “Why do you always cry?” 

Like when they were in Harrenhal’s Godswood where Robb cupped her face, now he did the same and wiped her tears with his thumb. He bent down to her, his face getting closer to hers. For a heartbeat she thought he might kiss her. She braced herself and closed her eyes.

The kiss never come.

Instead, Robb let her go and slumped into the nearest chair. Her heart still beating erratically and she was gasping for air. There was still big lumps in her throat, she felt like choking. Her eyes red and raw from dried tears. 

“Forgive me, Princess.” he whispered. “It was not honorable to yell at you like that. Please forgive me. I—I was not feeling myself.” he frowned, looking a little lost. “I want to be trusted by you, yet I didn’t do anything.”

“You did what you think is best,” she replied quietly, “You keep me safe.”

“Did I, though?” he gave her a heartbreaking look.

“I won’t leave my tent again.” Her voice trembled. 

Robb was silent for a moment before he rose to his feet. “Please understand that it is dangerous for you to venture away from your pavilion.”

She nodded, keeping her head down.

“Forgive me, Princess.”

“No, forgive me, Your Grace.”

“Can I ask something of you?”

“Anything, Your Grace.”

“Please don’t take off that coat.”


	14. Chapter 14

“You have to eat.” 

Myrcella pushed the bowl away. Even the smell makes her want to throw up. 

Pia sighed. “Milady. You’ve been like this, since…” 

She looked up to her friend, feeling her eyes raw and swollen from crying for days. _“Why do you always cry?”_ she could hear Robb’s voice, the sharpness in his tone made her felt weak and she hated herself for it.

“Yes?” Myrcella asked.

“Did King Robb do something to you?”

She furrowed her eyebrows to hear the odd question. “No.” 

“Shall I fetch lady Brienne to accompany you?”

Lady Brienne has been gracious enough to engage her in civil conversation, even sometimes joined her for dinner. Brienne was the one who told her nothing happened to ser Patrek other than wounded pride. He has not come to see her again, but maybe that was for the best. 

“Don’t bother her.” Myrcella reprimanded Pia.

Shuddered on her sleeping pallet, she draped Robb’s surcoat for warmth and comfort. The sound of soldier’s screaming and shouting outside the tent pierced her ears and makes her heart pound faster. The roaring sound continued until past midnight, celebrating the last gold mine Robb has taken.

Few nights ago he marched to take the Crag and gold mines around Castamere. His forces burned and pillaging the area as his forces advances deeper. Bearded or no, Robb was still a youth of seventeen seeking vengeance no less than Lord Karstark whose sons were slain. Those who returned alive and whole were carrying the spoils of war. They laugh, shout, and sing praises of their King. The injured were placed in recovery camps with the healers. The dead were left to be buried by the silent sisters.

During the uproar she thought she heard children crying and a woman shout, but Pia shook her head. “Don’t think about it,” Pia made her stopped asking. She jumped every time the overlapping canvas door swung open, but it was only Walton checking on them. 

Tension and guilt hold the best of her, something she couldn’t shake away. 

She wanted to see Robb. 

She wanted the shouting to stop. 

A woman shouting curses to laughing men… 

Who is she?

What is happening outside?

Who are they? 

It was draining.

She longed for the serenity a Godswood provided and dreaded that there were none in the area. Not even a single weirwood tree, her Grandfather’s ancestor made sure of it. 

The Song of the Seven becomes her solace every time the men went to battlefield. Robb was always with them. _Watch over him and bring him back,_ she silently prayed. 

If the old Gods cannot hear her, the Seven must be. She has been a devout follower since she was old enough to climb the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. Then since she was about ten, she never failed to lit candles at their statues every week. If she closed her eyes she could recalled the rough sculpture of their marble faces, every grimace and every smile. 

_Watch over Robb. Protect the innocents. End this war. I will never ask for anything again..._

Sewing always occupied her mind, easing the tension off her. When she finished a bodice for Pia (whose eyes immediately wet and Myrcella blushed furiously because it really just a humble gift), she began asking for any men-at-arms’ clothes who needed repair. They don’t know, of course. Myrcella forbade Pia from telling anyone who had sewed their clothes, lords, lowly knights or common soldier alike. The workload become a much needed distraction to push Robb and the war away from her mind. It is the least thing she could do if not she could lose her mind. 

She only saw glimpse of him in the distance. He was always surrounded by his companions, blending among furs and armors if not for his auburn curls that shines under the evening sun. To see him sends her heart leaping dangerously in the ribcage. The more she tried to ignore it, the more it dangerously grew bolder each passing day. She could sense him around her, sending absolute longing and peace altogether knowing they are in the same place. 

A hole inside her has been filled just by knowing Robb was there, breathing.

On one of the afternoons she sat to sew in front of her tent, their eyes accidentally met from across the field. For a split second the world stops spinning, noises disappeared. There was only Robb. No one else matters. She was sure she floated into the depth of his eyes even from such a distance. It’s frightening to know he went from a stranger to someone she completely infatuated with. 

Sometimes she questioned if this feeling was from the guilt she felt for house Stark. Because, what else the most likely explanation for what she feels?

 _“The fact is, I don’t hate you,”_ Robb had said.

_You should hate me, as I should have hated you. Like our families did and let any friendship died with Lord Eddard and King Robert._

 -

“Can I take a bath, please?”

She looked hopefully at her friend, watching Pia put a small thick cloth inside her underwear. A bucket of water, redden by her blood, was taken out from the tent by other servant. It had been more than a week without proper bath; her hair began to feel limp and the moonblood left her grubby. Myrcella knew she shouldn’t ask, Robb’s order was to stay in her pavilion whatever the reason. But visualizing the crystal clear pool not far from her tent was so tempting.

“I will ask the King, milady.”

She smiled, thanking Pia sincerely for her effort before resuming her needle work. She had already finished a stack of men-at-arms’ clothes that needed repair, so now she turned her attention resuming an embroidery of her Grandfather’s land.

The sun had set when Pia returned into the tent, looking ecstatic. 

“The King said yes, milady! I will prepare your clothes and we can go to the pool right away!”

Her happiness was soon spreading to Myrcella as she stood up to abandoned her needles. 

“Did you see him yourself?” 

“Oh, yes, he was red as wine when I told him a lady needs to clean herself.” Pia giggled. “He knows how sticky to rinse out blood, doesn’t he? We don’t have any bathtub here in the middle of the woods. He said yes right away.”

“And how is he doing?” 

Pia stopped on her track to look at her, a bit taken aback. Myrcella bit her bottom lip, trying to hide her nervousness.

“He is fine, milady. He asked about you too.”

“He did? What was it?”

“If you’re alright and what you’re doing lately.”

“Oh.”

“I told him you embroidered the Westernland’s so beautifully, stretches green so far and wide. That you insisted repairing his men’s clothes. And you sing the Song of the Seven every time he went to battlefield.”

She blushed right away. “Why did you tell him that?”

Pia looked ashamed. “Forgive me, I thought—,”

“Doesn’t matter, anyway,” she shook her head. “Shall we go?”

From the tall pines and sagebrush around the pool came no sound. It was still as a painting, no movement of branches and not even the sound of wild animals. She looked back to where the camp was and sees the orange hues of bonfires adorned the dark sky. 

Pia helped her to undress, folding the clothes into small pile by the side of the pool. She hoped that Pia would join her, but no, her friend stood beside Walton behind a big pine tree. She can feel their closeness, the intimacy they shared. Sometimes she feels lonely because of it. Young as she is, she had never met a pair devoted to each other not even her mother and King Robert. 

Come to think about it, the closest she could recall was perhaps her mother and uncle Jaime.

 _We don’t choose whom we love; it’s just beyond our control…_ Jaime’s voice trailed from the back of her head.

Slowly, she dipped her legs into the water. The water was cold but a welcome thing. Her action made the surface of the pool rippled in ever widening circles until they disappeared to the opposite of the pool. 

Myrcella slide down, sighed as the cold water embrace her frame completely. If she stands in the pool her shoulders would slightly still be above the surface. It was a pleasant feeling to wash the smoke from her hair and moonblood from her legs. As she bathed, water dripped down from her hair and made their way on her skin that shined under the moonlight. 

A rustling sound from behind the bush startled her. Someone, or something, was heading towards the pool.

“Pia?” she called. “Would you like to join me?”

No answer.

Pia had told her no one should know she was bathing. 

 _Not everyone as virtuous as Walton,_ her friend said. That was why she always took her for a bath in the night.

Myrcella decided it was time to finish her bath and swam to the edge of the pool. In her haste she pulled Robb’s surcoat and slung it over her shoulders to cover her nakedness. She tried not to make any sound, fearing whoever behind the bush would find her. She thought of calling Pia or Walton again but decided against it. Her hand instinctively went to the small pocket she made on her dress, the fingers groping to find the little knife she had keep hidden. Just then a set of yellow eyes slowly emerges from behind the trees and she sighed in relief.

“Grey Wind!”  

The direwolf, despite its size, padded gracefully to her. In her full height the direwolf has grown so tall that its dark snout was the same level to her nose. There was serenity in its gaze, also intelligence that she never saw in other animals. 

She could feel Grey Wind’s warm breath as it sniffed the coat, recognizing the smell of its master before giving a muffled whine on her damp neck. 

She giggled when its long tongue tickled her ear. 

“Hello to you. You seemed well. Did you take good care of Robb?” she whispered to its ear. The direwolf kept nuzzling as an answer, kissing away water droplets. “You’re so big now, aren’t you? Did you see my friends on your way here?”

She was naked under the coat and the wind blew softly. It slid down from her shoulders and fell to the ground. Before she could bend down to pick it up and cover her body again, the direwolf whined. 

The snout slowly trailed down from her neck to her chest, following the droplets on her body. A sigh escaped as Grey Wind’s tongue touched her nipple. The friction between her sensitive skin and the tip of the direwolf’s rough tongue made her shiver and… _weird._

She should have been scared, yet she was mystifyingly calm.

They stared at each other; Grey Wind’s mouth slightly open with ends turning up, almost appears to be smiling. The big direwolf looked calm even though blood trickled lazily between her legs. Its golden yellow eyes gleam intelligently, never breaking eye contact. 

She felt like recognizing Grey Wind’s solemn gaze.

The air was humid. She savored the thickness as she breathed it in, heavy and cold at the same time. 

\--

Walton announced she is expected to be in the King’s royal tent after dinner. Her guard didn’t relay more information, only said that someone will be send to fetch her to the King. 

It was a clear night with no clouds above their heads. As she followed Lady Brienne, she realized it was the first time she’d see Robb’s place where he spend his time resting, if not preparing for war. The royal pavilion was guarded heavily by his companions of noble births, Stark and Baratheon sigils hanging at the entry. The banners flutter lazily by the evening wind. 

As usual she saw Grey Wind sitting at its master’s heel when Lady Brienne took her inside. The beast looked up from its resting place and she was almost sure if Grey Wind could smile it would give her the biggest smirk. 

Robb himself was standing behind a large table set up in the rear. He didn’t look up from the letter he was reading, but nodded acknowledgment to Lady Brienne’s greetings. A wide folding screen was placed near the brazier, from the shadows it appeared to be where Robb’s bed is placed. 

The men inside Robb’s tent were clad in chainmail and armors even during the night, Ser Patrek among them. Their swords pointed dangerously at another group of four, to her surprise bearing house Lannister’s roaring lion. The youngest of the four, visibly shaking, holding on a white flag pole he gripped so hard his knuckles turned white. They were tied together, shoulder to shoulder, using a rope.

Myrcella didn’t recognize any of them.

“Are you satisfied?” Robb’s deep voice cut the silence. 

“Aye, Your Grace. We will deliver your message back to the Queen Regent and Lord Hand.”

“Go. You have until dawn to get out of the area before my men shot arrows through your heart.”

“My men will take them to Golden Tooth.” Lord Bolton offered and Robb nodded his consent.

The four men glanced at her one last time before their heads were covered in black. 

Now it left Robb and his direwolf, Lord Bolton, ser Patrek, Lady Brienne and her in the tent. She was unsure whether she should stay, but Robb has not ordered her to leave. Her head was spinning trying to put together what had just happened. So they were sent from King’s Landing? Who are they? And they wanted to see her? Clearly Robb meant to show her for the men to report back to King’s Landing… Did her mother send them? What do they want?

Is this just her imagination that Robb seems to avoid looking at her? 

Her eyes were watching Robb as he made his way around the table. Several times she saw his stiff movements, especially if he had to move to his right. The corner of his mouth twitches every time he made it. The injury hasn’t healed yet and Robb tried his best to conceal the pain. 

“It is good to see you again, Princess.” ser Patrek smiled as the man took his place beside her.

“Ser Patrek, I am so glad you are doing fine.”

“My apologies our last stroll didn’t end well.”

“The blame was on me, ser. I shouldn’t leave my tent without the King’s permission.” 

“Perhaps another opportunity shall come our way, Princess.” the knight smiles kindly at her. She thought she saw hope in his brown eyes, but she must have mistaken. Before she could offer a reply Robb looked up from the table. 

Myrcella took the moment to ask Robb about the men.

“They were sent by your uncle Tyrion.” Robb informed her, somehow sounded a little vexed. “It seems they hardly believe I treated you well.” 

Robb’s face looks tired; there are dark circles under his eyes now and the auburn hair has just been trimmed. Myrcella cursed herself for thinking how unfortunately handsome he was, fidgeting at her fingers to shove away the disturbing thought. Even though she still sensed his ire and the fact he refuses to look at her, she realize she was happy to be able to see him up close again. This was the first time they are in the same room since Robb yell at her.

“What did they want, Your Grace?”

“You.” he said plainly, still refusing to meet her eyes. Robb laid out a map and put wooden pawns shaped after noble houses’ sigils on it. “They want the Kingslayer too. Also for my army to leave your Grandfather’s land. That was quite a lot, wasn’t it?” 

He slammed down a pawn onto the table, the wood cracked by the harsh impact. It was one of the Lannister lions.

The overlapping canvas door flung open. Robb’s high born lords and lieutenants strode in led by the Blackfish, giving her a look but didn’t say anything. Their eyes were pure resentment and detest that she had to look away. She glanced at the map where wooden pawns already assembled in certain areas; lions in the west, in the Reach and in the capital. She saw stags in the King’s Road and in Blackwater Bay. Wolves in the west, in the north, in the riverlands. Krakens along the Ironman’s bay and Cape of Eagles… All of them mingled with Trouts, Axes, Arrows, Roses, Bears, Moose, Red Stallions, Hunters and all others. 

Sigils were moving yet only Falcons and the Sun pierced by a golden spear that have not join the crowd. 

 _Lady Catelyn failed to persuade the Vale to join in. And Dorne…,_ Myrcella thought of the faceless prince she was promised to. _I was supposed to bring Dorne to Joffrey’s cause._

“She has to go.” Lord Bolton said, leering at her with his strange eyes.

“Your Grace, may I offer to take the Princess to her pavilion.” ser Patrek requested.

Grey Wind growled, baring its teeth.

“Lady Brienne will do.”  Robb answered, nodded to Brienne but still not sparing a glance at Myrcella.

Brienne escorted her back to her pavilion, bowing politely before she went back to attend Robb’s council. Somewhat disappointed her encounter with Robb was only brief, not to mention his refusal to look at her, Myrcella resumed her needlework. After all she was not sleepy either. She had added a grey wolf running on the green field of Westerlands soon after her encounter with Grey Wind at the vernal pool. 

 _A lone wolf,_ she thought of Robb, feeling rather sad as she stroked the little wolf-shaped embroidery. 

She didn’t know how far Stannis was to the capital to take the iron throne. If Robb’s map is correct, he is close. What will happen to her brothers if the city falls? What will happen to her family? 

Stannis have to give them mercy, have not he?

 _Robb would,_ she thought. _Robb will never let any harm come to me, he told me just so. Robb will not hurt us._

Myrcella clutches the handkerchief tighter. 

_Robb is alone in the enemy’s land, but whatever the outcome of this war I’ll not let them harm him._

\---

It was the hour of the wolf when Myrcella heard the deafening silence. 

She woke up from her sleep, shaking her head to chase away the reminder of her dreams. It was that bed of buttercup flowers again where she was laid motionless as if in death… Headless knights in crimson red groped her cold body. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry,_ they mocked her weakness. No voice came out of her throat when she tried to call for Robb. _You promised to keep me safe,_ she pleaded in her dream. They continued groping and mocking her. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, why are you always crying?_  

She was relieved to be awakened, until she recognized the strange silence that alarmed her. 

Leaves rustled, but not by the wind. An eerie kind of tranquility that heightened all her senses. She knew it was close. There was only one kind of silence, in which a predator was near. Myrcella felt like she was in the mud of the Red Fork again, waiting for impending death.

_But only it was not death._

She tiptoed towards the entrance and peeked. 

Walton and her other guards sat at the entrance, snoring softly. She had to narrow her eyes to see through the darkness. Embers from the bonfire glowed yellow and red, but didn’t give much help. 

It was then when a huge figure emerged from the darkness among the trees. A set of golden yellow eyes stares back at her, calling her to come closer… 

Hypnotized by its presence Myrcella took a step out of the tent, careful enough not to make a startling sound. 

Grey Wind waited patiently. She was close enough to touch its fur when Grey Wind suddenly turned into the woods. For a moment Myrcella hesitated; should she follow the direwolf or just return to her tent?

The obedient girl inside her was telling her to get back. The other side, the one who admires the thrill of the unknown, urged her to follow the direwolf. She was giddy by the two conflicting feelings. Although in the end, she followed her instincts as she quickly fell in behind Grey Wind. 

Perhaps she could take a walk with him, she justifies herself. It was quiet and she could just scream if she ever needed help. She can’t go back to sleep anyway. Her dreams only made her wake up feeling more tired than ever. Besides, she isn’t planning to run away. 

The direwolf knew the girl was following, so it padded casually ahead.

She could still see Grey Wind’s large figure walking silently even though it has grown as big as a horse. She felt safe just by looking at the direwolf, the same feeling whenever Robb was near. It should be fine, shouldn’t it? 

They left the camping ground as trees closing in on them. Smooth leaves brushed against her arms, the woods decorated with outgrown giant roots, wildflowers and mushrooms and fallen leaves. The vernal pool hidden by the pine trees came to view, quenches the thirst of the woods. Grey Wind stopped to drink. Knowing a hunter was among them the woods became very quiet. Owls stopped hooting. Crickets and frogs were reluctant to make a sound.

Myrcella approached Grey Wind by the pool. She could feel Grey Wind’s weight when the direwolf leaned against her palm. 

“Do you miss me, Grey Wind?” she asked the direwolf, smiling as she caressed the grey fur on the side of its stomach. 

Its eyes took her in when she finally retreated; casting loose one of her shoes to dipped the toes in the cold water. It felt comfortable and safe even though she was accompanied by a giant wolf in the middle of the woods. She think of Tommen and couldn’t help but smiling. Tommen always has soft spots for exotic beasts and animals. 

“I missed my little brother, too,” she told the direwolf. “He’d be very happy if he can meet you. My brother loves kittens, dragons, mermaids and direwolves. Until now he had only seen kittens. Imagine his happiness if he ever laid eyes on a beauty such as you, Grey. I wish you can meet him someday.” 

Grey Wind looked at her with its golden yellow eyes. The grey fur shone like silver under the moonlight. Myrcella took off her other shoes and dipped both feet into the water. She sighed, pulling Robb’s coat closer. The wolf’s fur rubs against her cheeks, a familiar tingle she often seek.

“I always think he’ll take a ship and travel the world when he comes of age. Since he could talk he always said he wanted to go on an adventure, perhaps to find a new continent. Can you believe it? Mother will have none of it, of course. She liked us close to her. The last time I saw my little brother, he pleads to be allowed to sail to Dorne with me.” she whispered to the direwolf. “I asked him, _what do you expect from Dorne?_ Our Septa said there’s only desert as far as the eye can see. _I want to see camels and dragons,_ he told me. Dragons! There are plenty of dragons’ bones beneath the throne room, but Tommen never stopped hoping to see a living one. Did you know he was angry at our mother for not letting him see you and your litter-mates back then in Winterfell?” Myrcella smiles at the memory.

The direwolf looked at her closely as if it understood what she was saying. She almost believed it did.

“I hope they are safe in King’s Landing. My uncle Stannis are drawing closer each day to them. And Robb...” she had to stop to compose herself. “You take good care of Robb, okay? Don’t let anyone harm him.”

Grey Wind growled softly as an answer from its sitting ground. 

She had seen Robb’s map. Soon he’ll ride again. When that happens, this time which side will lose? She shuddered to even think about it. Whichever side she will grieve the same. Was it selfish to hope their Houses can stop hating each other and shed the blood of innocent? 

Deep down she knew that was not how the war proceeded but still, she hoped.

“Is he sleeping already? Of course he is, isn’t he? It’s almost dawn. He needs that sleep. Don’t you think he looks tired? I missed my family. Robb said he will take me back to them. Do you miss your pack? Don’t you wish this war never happened?”

Grey Wind whined.

“When you see Robb don’t tell him I said these things, okay?” she whispered, cringing.

Grey Wind’s ears perked up and stood up abruptly. He growled before jumping away, disappearing behind the trees surrounding the pool. 

“Grey Wind?”

The forest hums with life again; owls, crickets and frogs… She heard Grey Wind howls somewhere, perhaps it heard something or just went hunting. She pulled her feet from the water to saw the brim of her nightgown was soiled with mud. Pia will not be happy. 

It always coldest just before dawn, soon she begins to shiver under the coat. She blew in the air and saw white mist evaporating from her mouth. 

Grey Wind did not return.

Time to go back; without Grey Wind, who knows what might linger behind the trees in the dark?

Just as she prepares to leave, a twig cracked behind her. 

Myrcella whirled around and almost fell into the pool. 

Robb’s hands were faster; he caught her forearms, prevented her from slipping as he pulled her bumping to his chest. 

“This is the second time I found you here, almost falling into the water.” he grinned sleepily. 

“I—how did you—?!” 

“I saw you in my dream.” Robb supplied the answer. He wore a loose white shirt under his wolf’s fur coat. He was standing so close to her that she could breathe in his scent; leather and freshly cut timber, sweet like cinnamon and pine... She blinked her eyes, desperate to block the irresistible smell from imprinting her mind.

“Your… your dream?” she asked, dazed.

Robb nodded, yawning. 

“A pleasant change instead of hunting. It was not the first, though. This time when I woke up I thought I should take a look, just in case.” His eyes were searching her, penetrating. “And here you are...” he looked as mystified as herself. 

She realized he was still holding her forearms. 

“I… I am not trying to run away. I—,”

“Just wanna wash your face?” Robb finished the sentence for her, smirking. 

“Don’t punish my guards. Don’t hurt Pia and Walton. They didn’t know I slipped away. I’m sorry, I—I’ve disobeyed you again. They didn’t know, I swear—,”

“You worry about a lot of people; your knight ser Patrek, your guards, your handmaid... “

 _“Please,”_ she begged, unable to hold her body from trembling under Robb’s gaze. 

He released his grip. “Fine. I will let this pass.”

“You—you won’t punish them?” she couldn’t believe her ears.

“No.”

 _Joffrey would,_ the thought came to her unbidden. _Why are you not? Why are you full of forgiveness and consideration?_

“Thank you…  Your Grace.” _Why you do not even hate me?_

Silence fell awkwardly between them. 

Then she remembered her hair must be a mess, similar if not worse like the morning Robb found her by the vernal pool. This time, out of shock, she didn’t hide herself. She let him looked at her as she is now, a mess, with swollen eyes wrapped in the cloak he gave her. For the first time in her life she felt vulnerable and yet empowered under his gaze. 

“Don’t you afraid that I’d run away?” she had to ask, out of curiosity for his generosity.

“I know you won’t.”

“Why do you trust me not to?”

“Because I want to trust you, that’s all. Do you think it was a mistake?”

“No,” she replied meekly, feeling a bit embarrassed. “How—how was your meeting?” she cringed as soon as the question went out her mouth.

“Why, are you a spy?” that smirk again.

“I am not a spy.”

“Of course a spy would deny being one.”

“I apologize. I shouldn’t ask such sensitive question.” No one would believe his eyes if they see them. She was technically his hostage; she lived only because of his mercy. He could have imprisoned her or gave her to his men, perhaps even let Lord Karstark kill her and be done with it. Why they are talking like friends was beyond her comprehension. _Didn’t Robb once comfort her when she broke down to see Jaime?_ The memory never fails to make her blush. She wanted to understand why Robb treated her well when people think all Lannister are bad. 

“It went well, I think... Also tiring.” Robb said, taking her mind back from its reverie. He did look exhausted and sounded sleepy. 

“You should go back to sleep, Your Grace.”

“Don’t tell me to go away, Princess, not when I finally got to see you.” 

“You have seen me before, Your Grace. When Lady Brienne took me to your tent to show off to my uncle’s messenger.” Myrcella reminded him, her voice somewhat defensive for unknown reason. _At that time you didn’t even want to look at me. But why I am even annoyed at the fact?_

It must be due to that strange vibration again, coming from inside her. She could feel it too in the air; in the wind that hits her face, in her legs that were trembling from being submerged in the pool. How it made her skin crawled like she was electrified… 

Robb gave her a sideway look, sighing. “You know it is not safe for you to be alone in the woods, right? You have to stop doing this.”

“Forgive me,” she flinched at his words, knowing full well that she was to blame.

To her surprise Robb was chuckling, “I know you’re just like Arya in this matter. With Sansa’s courtesy, no doubt. I sensed it in you.”

 _Was that a good thing?_ “I saw Grey Wind and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to be with him. I was just about to get back when you came.” she felt the urge to explain.

“So that meant you have done washing your face?” 

Myrcella could feel the heat growing in her cheeks. It only made Robb’s smile grew even wider as he studied her for a moment; the blue eyes looked at her closely. She returned his gaze, letting herself sink into the depth of his face. The sculptured jaw, the thick eyebrows above his cloudless sky blue eyes, the pupils enlarged in the dark night… And—to her surprise—his lips. It was thinner at the top with natural cupid’s bow. She tried to focus her sight on his eyes again.

“Ser Patrek offered to guard you. He seemed… quite fond of you.” Robb was standing too close to her liking, making her afraid he could hear her irregular heartbeat. When she didn’t answer, Robb blinked, furrowing his eyebrows like he was having internal struggle. He moved to leave the pool. “Walk with me, Princess.” 

She followed him in silence, walking on naked earth among giant roots and fallen leaves. Their footsteps were muffled by the sounds of crickets and owls, or was it because her heart beating so loud? 

He didn’t offer his arm for her to hold, but turned every few seconds to make sure she was safe next to him without tripping over the end of her wet dress.

The woods were darkest just moments before the first light appeared, but there was peace in it. Fear left her even when Robb steered her deeper in a direction she has never explored before. Rows of pine trees narrowed. She looked up to see the shy shade of the sun which would soon rise in the eastern horizon.

“Where are you taking me?” She watched him move, the warrior in him made every movement poised. “Your Grace?” 

As an answer Robb unexpectedly stopped and bent down to take something. She heard him took a sharp gasp when his stomach pressed down on the injured part, but bit back the desire to reaching out to him. When he straightens again there was a flower in his hand.

 _Buttercup,_ she realized.

Without saying a word he held it out to her, and when she did not protest Robb tucks it behind her ear. His finger stayed long after the flower was pinned, caressing the cartilage. Every senses in her body instantly yield to him. 

Only her mind was telling her to pull away. To run. To hate. To…

 _The knife,_ Jaime’s voice reminded her.

 _No,_ she rebuffed the voice. _No._

Instead she closed her eyes to feel Robb.

And she did feel him entirely, the way she know his body moved to close the distance between them, the way his index finger studying the curve of her ear with the roughness of his fingertip...

Finally the morning sun shone through the gaps of trees and fell on the forest floor. Feeling the contrast warm on her cold skin, Myrcella opened her eyes and gasped.

They were standing in the middle of flower bed. Yellow petals shine like field of gold under the sun rays as the forest floor was filled with buttercup flowers, growing stubbornly at the foot of giant trees.

“I found this place some days ago,” Robb said, the tone husky. “I’ve thought about bringing you here to see it, before...” He let out a breath like he was holding it the whole time. “...before I saw your little stroll with him.”

She realized he wanted to make amends. His way of saying he was sorry.

“It’s beautiful, Your Grace. Thank you.”

Robb’s hand slowly fell from her ear to caress the wolf fur draped over her shoulders.

“You didn’t take off the coat.” he murmured.

High above them a bird sings melodious chirping cascading through tree branches. She couldn’t deny how she feels at ease here, with the King in the North.

“Are you going to ride again?” she whispered, remembering his map.

“Yes.”

“Do you have proper armor, now?”

“You sounded like my mother.” he protested, grinning. 

“Well, the north cannot lose their King, can they? And your injury has not even fully recovered.” 

Robb laughed. It was the kind of laughter that was contagious and she found herself laughing too, even though she was blushing. She has taken too much liberty talking to him. What makes Robb so different than the rest of her brother’s court? Talking to him was like a dance; it comes naturally and once she allowed herself pulled into his aura, it became beautifully chaotic.

“Are you going to win the war?” Her question caught him off guard and he frowns. 

“I don’t know.” he said truthfully. “There are three other Kings in the realm right now.”

“But you are not competing for the iron throne.”

“No.” he confirmed.

 _Don’t speak a word,_ Jaime’s voice scolded her. 

“Your Grace,” she tried to suppress her doubt.

 _No,_ Jaime’s voice sounded so far away. 

“Yes?”

“I—I think you should make direct appeals to other lords…” 

 _You are a fool!_ she could hear her uncle’s voice in back of her head, angrier. _Are you lion, or a wolf?_

“I’ve heard rumors that Jon Arryn’s death was a foul one. And your father was fostered in the Vale, grew up inside its halls. If you make direct appeals to the Vale lords, they’d have been honor-bound to avenge their lord and your father.” she hoped her voice was clear enough since her hands were visibly shaking. She had never offered her thoughts to anyone before. Her mother never care to listen; she was groomed all her life to be some Princeling or lordling’s prize bride, and her Septa taught her a lady should not offer her opinion unless she was asked. 

She paused to give Robb a chance to shut her up but he only stood there, listening. 

“When Jon Arryn was alive, I knew he planned to foster young Robin in Storm’s End. His wife loudly refused this and took her son back to the Eyrie. Adding that a Kingsguard appointed Warden in the East would be seen as insult by the Valeman, wouldn’t it? You should try to talk to them again, Your Grace.”

A full minute passed without Robb saying a thing. His eyes fixated at her like he was looking at her for the first time. 

“Forgive me… I understand you don’t need and was not pleased with my thoughts... I was rude.”

“No, it was true.” Robb said suddenly, eyes lit up under the morning sun. “though my aunt might not have it. She may call it treason for her bannermen to disobey their liege lord… but...” he has that solemn look on his face while he was thinking, the thick eyebrows furrowed. “My great-uncle Brynden was in Lady Arryn’s service before he left to be in mine. He told me the Waynwoods, Royces, Templetons and Redforts are among those who would like to join the war as well. Come to think about it, you might be right, Princess. When my aunt refused to send her army it was because they have to protect her son…”

“Then she will do everything to keep Robin by her side, not from being taken to King's Landing. Her chance is better if she joins Stannis Baratheon and you.”

“What you’ve just said, even my council failed to brought forward such thoughts.” 

“Your Grace, I didn’t mean—,”

“Thank you,” he cuts in, the smile on his face sincere. “But why are you telling me this?”

“You are alone...” was all she whispered, as baffled as him. _I just wanted you to be safe._

“You know I am not. I have an army.”

_A wolf belongs with his pack, never alone._

Joffrey’s smug face came to her mind. _Where does your loyalty lay, sweet sister?,_ she could hear his voice and instinctively shivered to think what will Joffrey do if he know what she had just done. 

The scar on her back felt itchy. She had long forgotten that the scar was even there...

_Am I a traitor to my family?_

_Yes, you are,_ Jaime’s voice followed, gentle yet heavy with regret.


	15. Chapter 15

**CATELYN**

She had reached the southernmost of the seven kingdoms for her son. The Summer Sea was close by and she could smell the salty water. Her legs cramped; she had this headache since fortnight ago and sleep has not been friendly to her. She was not built for long journeys, especially ones with a lack of rest. 

 _But we don’t have time,_ she said to herself as she urged ser Rodrik and their horses further south. _Rest can wait, after all of my children are safe._

As Sunspear came to view—a strong, fortified castle built largely of mud and straw—she commanded her entourage to ride full speed into its gate. The wheels that hold the wagon creaking hideously at the speed they took, sometimes she thought the wheels would give up and break. 

Stark’s banner along with Stannis Baratheon’s flutters in the wind as six men rode from the castle to meet them halfway, bearing house Martell’s sigil; the red sun pierced by a golden spear on orange field. Between Stark’s and Baratheon’s sigils stood the third banner of a white flag. 

“Halt!” the riders threatening their spears at them.

“We come in peace and good faith, sers, in the name of Robb Stark the King in the North and Stannis Baratheon the rightful heir to the Iron Throne,” Catelyn spoke up while lowering the shawl that covered her auburn hair. “I am Catelyn Stark.”

The men looked to each other, clearly distrustful. 

“What is inside the wagon?” their leader asked.

“Gregor Clegane’s bones, a gift for Prince Doran Martell.”

Upon hearing the name, the guard nodded. Two of them rode back to the castle first, while the rest took their time escorted them to the Tower of the Sun which contains the Dorne Prince’s throne room. Though it was called _the throne room_ instead of a great hall, there was no throne inside. 

A dais was erected in the center of the room with several chairs completely far from a throne. The entire room was decorated in house Martell’s colors. The walls were studded with precious stones, rich tapestry and on one of the chairs sat a handsome man. His face showed no expression when she approached. He holds a spear in his right hand.

 _He is bearing steel,_ Catelyn thought. 

Though it was more common of sword in the north, she had heard of Prince Oberyn’s weapon of choice. A lord or host bearing steel in front of a guest only meant one thing: that the guest is not welcome in his hall.

“Lady Catelyn of House Stark, in the name of Robb Stark the King in the North and Stannis Baratheon the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” she heard the herald said. “My lady, you are received by Prince Oberyn of House Martell.”

Catelyn curtsied. “Prince Oberyn, my lord, thank you for welcoming us—,”

“I have not given you any guest right, my lady.” he cuts in. “Nor do I welcome you in our land and hall.”

 _This won’t be easy._ “I understand, my lord. I came bearing agift for Prince Doran.”

“My brother is not feeling well. You must have heard about the gout.”

“Unfortunately I have, my lord. I beg him for a fast recovery.”

“He won’t.” Oberyn said as a matter of factly, “My brother sends his warmest regards and his regret that he cannot receive you. But please, state your meaning here, my lady. As soon as I officially reject any offer you made, I can resume my other activities.”

She gestured the wooden chest to be brought in front of Oberyn Martell, who sit straighter as it was placed below the dais. A letter from Robb was given, received by the maester at the feet of the dais. The maester showed Oberyn the direwolf sigil, who nodded before the maester opened the letter. He then resumed by whispering something to Oberyn, placing the letter for the prince to see for himself. Oberyn nodded to the wooden large box.

“Open it.” he commanded his guards.

The wooden chest was bigger than any box she had ever seen. Three men tried to break the wax seal and when their efforts finally paid off, a foul odor filled the room. She wanted to look away and trying to hold back her nausea, but Oberyn Martell’s face looked calm as he stared at the content of the box, unblinking.

“So it is true,” Oberyn finally said, still looking into the chest. He even raised from his seat to take a better look.

“Gregor Clegane’s bones, as a good faith token for Dorne.” Catelyn confirmed.

The corpse—or rather what was left of the Mountain—was almost devoid of flesh and skin. His head was cut off from his body, apparently that was what ended or at least made sure the monster was dead. His whole body had decomposed badly and his flesh fell out from the bones. Even with the flesh rotting, she could see how torn the body was. 

In his death he even looked menacing; taller and bigger than any average men, his corpse laid more than two meters long. It seemed the Mountain didn’t go down easily. She shuddered and thanking the old Gods and the new for keeping Robb save from the monster.

“Pity I didn’t slain him myself.” Oberyn nodded. He clicked his fingers and servants came out bringing plates of bread, mead and salt. “Welcome to Sunspear, Lady Stark. My brother and I will meet you this evening after you freshen up.”

Catelyn breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Prince Oberyn, thank you.”

She was grateful for the opportunity to rid herself of sand and dust from her journey, before meeting with the Prince of Dorne. She heard a lot about Prince Doran Martell, even though she had never met him in person. If the rumors are half-true Doran is considered shapeless and meek, contrary to the ferocious Oberyn Martell. He has not been much seen publicly since he was paralyzed with gout gnawing in his feet. She will find out soon enough; whether her trip to Dorne was in vain or whether it brought change to Robb and Stannis’s cause.

She didn’t bring many material things with her, but she had prepared a simple dress that was thin enough for Dorne’s warm climate. The dress was dark grey with high collared white lace. 

_Ned’s colors._

“Lady Stark,” ser Rodrik’s voice pulled her from her reverie. “It is time.”

A guard was sent to fetch her from her room. Accompanied by ser Rodrik and ser Perwyn Frey, she followed the guard. At first she thought she was taken back to the Tower of the Sun, yet they made a new route deeper into the castle, passing a lush garden with exotic flowers and into a large quarter.

It was also richly decorated, even more so than the throne room. Tapestries hung on the brick orange walls; one of them depicted the fall of Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon Meraxes during the First Dornish War. Giant arched windows on the other side of the room, curtains waved in the afternoon breeze. The rectangular chamber was bathed in red and orange light.

A tall, dark-skinned man holding a battle-ax greets them in the arch door. 

“Areo Hotah, the Prince’s sworn shield,” he introduced himself. “Prince Doran has waiting.”

Doran Martell, a man of mid fifty but appeared like he was in his eighties, sat on his wheelchair. His body is soft and skinny; the gout has swollen and reddened the joints of his hands. A velvet golden blanket covers his legs and feet to block the sight of his gout.

“Lady Stark, what a pleasant visit.” his voice was sultry and kind. He used to be handsome before falling to his sickness. Oberyn Martell stood beside him on his left and a third man by his right. “Apologies for not received you earlier. You must have met my brother, Oberyn. This is my son and heir, Trystane.” he gestured to the man on his right, a handsome young man no more than Robb’s age with olive skin and short black hair.

“The honor is mine, Prince Doran, thank you for kindly welcome us in your hall.”

“Your gift is also kindly received, my lady. Tell me how he died.”

“I am afraid I can’t, my lord. My son Robb slew him in battle when Gregor Clegane torched and ravaged my father’s land. I was not there to witness it.”

“He committed many unspoken atrocities. My brother has often talked about various ways to finish off the Mountain that Rides.” Doran nodded, his black eyes lingered on his brother. “Now tell me, my lady, we’ve heard of kings appeared in many corners of this realm… Your arrival as a mother of one of the new kings makes me wonder a little.”

“Yes, my lords. My son has waged war with the iron throne for the murder of his father and my lord husband, Eddard Stark. We demand sovereignty from the iron throne. We have allied with Stannis Baratheon, whom my husband supported as the rightful heir to the throne upon learning that King Robert’s children are not rightfully his.”

“That was a very serious accusation,” Oberyn said coolly. “You cannot prove they are bastards.”

“No, but there’s a book,” Catelyn said stubbornly, “written some seventy, eighty decades ago called _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdom._ My husband smuggled the said book along with a letter to Stannis Baratheon. Every time a Baratheon and a Lannister mated all of the children inherited the Baratheon looks. If at least one of them inherited their father’s traits, perhaps we can rest the case. Yet all the Queen’s children do not have any Baratheon traits. King Robert has to trueborn children and Stannis Baratheon is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

“Lady Stark, one of them is promised to my son,” Doran reminded her. “She has not come here. I believe your son can explain. He cheated us a princess, some Dornishman could think it was an insult.”

“Your son is promised a _bastard_ ,” she didn’t know what came to her to say that in front of the most powerful men in Dorne, but Oberyn smirked at her reply. “The Lannisters failed to send her to Dorne. My son found her in the Red Fork, dying. Robb didn’t cheat you anything or trying to insult Dorne in any way, my lords.”

“Bastard or no, your son should have sent her to Dorne!” the young man, Trystane, spoke up for the first time. 

“I hope he is not enchanted with the girl.” Oberyn teased. “I’ve heard she has her mother’s beauty, if not prettier. And men, young or old, fell to pretty faces easily.” 

 _I do hope the same, my lord,_ Catelyn thought bitterly. 

“What now, my lady? Your son took my son’s betrothed and sent our enemy’s bones. If swords and spears he wants, I will not drag my people to war. I’ve seen it; misery and pain were all we get.” Doran said sadly.

Her heart sank. “My lord, indeed we need your swords and spears. Perhaps you don’t believe it; but us northerners, we remember. We remember how Prince Lewyn perished in the trident in Robert’s Rebellion. We remember Princess Elia Martell and her two infant children, murdered by the Lannisters.”

 _“Don’t,”_ Prince Doran warned, his eyes sparkling with tears. “Don’t speak of my sister and her children as if I don’t want their murderer brought to justice. My uncle Lewyn perished in the war.”

“We are facing the same enemy...”

“I cannot risk anymore Dornishman.”

“My lords—,”

“You are not the only envoy to be sent here, Lady Stark.” Trystane Martell spoke up again. He wanted to say more but Doran’s raised hand stopped whatever he wanted to say.

“Yes, it is true,” Doran nodded, weary.

“The Lannisters send their envoy?” 

“They sent a _mockingbird.”_ Oberyn offered.

 _Petyr._ “And?”

“They were not welcome in Sunspear. We only talk if Princess Myrcella was brought back to my brother’s son, or the Mountain’s bones.” Oberyn gave her a sly smile. 

“I am afraid we are done here, Lady Stark.” Doran said softly. “Please be welcome in our hall. You may stay as long as you wish. Now if you will excuse me…”

“My lords, please—,”

“You are asking us to join an open rebellion against the iron throne!” 

“I am a mother who asked help to keep her children safe, however she could.”

“Lady Stark, I am afraid these… _rebellions_ … meant nothing to us. Wolves and krakens and stags... We supported the dragons until their last dragon king. My house has bled quite a lot.”

“Butchered by the lions. Huddled beneath their crimson red to hide the blood!”

“Are you asking me to seek revenge?”

“I am _pleading_ you to seek revenge, my lord.” she stated boldly. 

“As do the whole Dorne.” Doran shook his head. 

Trystane shifted his gaze from her to his father, while Areo Hotah stood idly behind the Prince, his face emotionless to witness their exchange. Oberyn didn’t say a word. 

Doran sighed. “It was kind of you to bring the Mountain’s bones this far. However, I apologize I cannot risk any Dornishman's blood in such open rebellion again. You do realize if the promised Princess reached Dorne then we might not have this conversation at all. Which makes me wonder… what will happen to her? The time will come when this war produces a winner; either your son is going to hand over the Princess to us, to her betrothed, or let Stannis kills her if he wins the iron throne.”

“The Princess is my son’s hostage; her presence guarantees my daughter’s safety in the hands of Lannisters.”

“Ah, what a shame,” 

Doran rang a bell and a servant hurriedly came to his side, ready to wheel him away. 

“So, my lord, you will leave your sister, your niece and nephew murdered in vain?” Catelyn wanted to scream at him, frustration building inside her.

“I never said I was fine with their brutal deaths, Lady Stark. I was saying I will not send my army so far north, risking my people in open rebellion.” his tone was cold and calculative. At that moment Catelyn saw the power Doran has behind his limitations. His face was calm and unreadable, but the sparkle in his eyes dangerous. Just before Doran and Trystane disappeared behind a curtain, the Dorne prince turned to her again. “I shall leave my brother Oberyn in your company. You two may have more things to… ah, discuss.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she couldn’t do anything but nodded politely, thanking him for his time.

Oberyn pour wine for both of them. “Can we talk in private, Lady Stark?”

Ser Rodrik and ser Perwyn gave her a wary look but she nodded and they left the chamber. As soon as they were left alone Oberyn sat in front of her, crossing his long legs. His dark eyes examined her; he was truly a handsome man, with dark curly hair cut short, thick eyebrows and strong jaws. 

“Do you truly believe the part that all King Robert’s children are not his?” Oberyn opened the conversation casually.

“I do, my lord. It was all written in Stannis Baratheon’s letter, a man of law and honor, informed by my lord husband and he was murdered for it by the Lannisters.”

Oberyn smiled. “So do I,” he said and his smile widens at her expression. “Yet I managed to dig a little deeper. I believe your husband did the same as me because he was so sure about the Queen’s children.”

“And what was it, my lord?”

“You were right when you said about heritage, Lady Stark. Doran and I found at least tens of Robert’s bastards scattered around the capital. We believe there is more in the rest of the seven kingdoms.” he chuckled. “All of those children supported Baratheon’s trait of black hair, as black as the night.”

She let out a breath. “Prince Doran and you, my lord?”

“Yes. We are closer than what people think and assumed, Lady Stark.”

“Then why—,”

“Why he refused to send our army to your son and Stannis?” Oberyn raised a brow; the glitter in his eyes never fades. “My brother, Doran, I loved him as much as I loved my little sister Elia. Doran loved her too; don’t get him wrong my lady, but he has a kingdom to look after. He couldn’t shed anymore Dornishman’s blood in a war against the lions. You see… we’ve lost dearly since our last participation in an open rebellion. But,” Oberyn paused to sip his wine again. “this is my opportunity to avenge my sister and her children. Doran can look after his people, while I take care of our sister. I will gladly be in your son and Stannis' side, as long as they give me the Lannisters.”

She wanted to cry and kneel to him if her hands were not too shaken. “Thank you, my lord...”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Oberyn poured himself again and brought the cup to his lips to drink deep. “Doran and I were able to save one of Robert’s bastards from the purge carried out by that stupid little king. He managed to get out of King’s Landing, wandering with a group headed to the Wall.”

“I beg your pardon?” she cannot believe her ears.

Oberyn gave her the sly smile again. “Would you like to meet him?”

Before she could answer, Oberyn clapped his hands. 

A hidden door behind a tapestry flung open and from behind it emerged a tall, young figure. The muscled lad was dressed neatly in a clean brown cotton jerkin. He has blue eyes and bushy jet black hair, as dark as the night. A dimple peeks shyly when he spoke.

“Yes, m’lord?”

 _Robert’s bastard…_ Catelyn thought, out of breath. 

She only met Robert twice in their youth, and the lad in front of her exactly like a young Robert comes to life. He could even be Renly’s twin in a more muscular, younger fashion. Oberyn laughed at her response.

“This is Gendry Waters. Gendry, meet Lady Catelyn of house Stark, mother of the King in the North.”

The lad’s eyes widened. “You are Lady Stark?” he said, clearly caught off guard before he realized he was talking to a highborn lady. Gendry lowered his eyes. “M’lady Stark!” he fell to his knees, bowing deep. “For—forgive me, m’lady.”

“Did you happen to know Lady Stark?”

Gendry seemed surprised. “I was just familiar with the house, m’lord.” he mumbled something about the Wall and someone named Arry.

“Gendry is a talented smith.” Oberyn said.

“Are you?” Catelyn could not take her eyes off the boy. His resemblance to Robert and Renly was too uncanny, it still surprised her.

“I apprenticed in Tobho Mott’s workshop in King’s Landing, m’lady. Before—before I was released from his service and traveled north to the Wall, m’lady.” the lad had stood up again but still didn’t dare to look away from his feet. 

“Oh,” she replied meekly, clutching her hands on her lap. “Are you planning to join the Night's Watch?"

“It seems so, m’lady, especially after I didn’t know where else to go after my master’s workshop.” he looked embarrassed. “But of course, m’lord found me and brought me here…”

She turned her gaze to Oberyn, who is still nursing his goblet, smiling ear to ear. 

 _Robert’s bastard is hidden away in Dorne._ _Doran and Oberyn are up to something. If not, why bother to take a bastard and not let him die?_

The lad talking about his apprenticeship in one smithy in the capital also raises her suspicion. How could a bastard afford it? The timing was not right either; the bastard left King’s Landing shortly before the purging took place. He was with an entourage to the north before being taken by Doran and Oberyn...

As if reading her mind, Oberyn put his goblet on the table and laughed.

“Doran is renowned to be secretive, Lady Stark. He is excruciatingly careful, weighing the risks of all actions he takes. Our father often joked it was a blessing Doran is the older one. Not me, not Elia.”

“You are planning this for so long, my lord.” her tone cold, accusing, but she didn’t care.

“Yes,” Oberyn didn’t even deny it. “Doran took a watchful eye; biding his time. We take care of one of Robert’s bastards and keep him alive and useful in that blacksmith’s place, paying for his apprenticeship. And you were right; Robert’s three children are not his trueborn. That makes what we have—Gendry—very valuable. When Jon Arryn revealed his suspicions we already have ours. Lord Arryn was dead not long after. Pain in the stomach, according to them. But I think it was _tears of the Lys_. Murdered, for what he almost discovered. So did your husband.”

She glanced at the lad, still looking intently at his feet. He looks innocent, even tends to look a little afraid even though he is large and stocky, thanks to forging iron and steel for years. Oberyn clicked his fingers again and Gendry bowed, clearly relieved to left the chamber. He disappeared again to the hidden door behind the tapestry.

“What is your plan, my lord?”

Oberyn leaned back in his chair. He had that kind of haughty expression that he didn’t seem to notice when he smiled faintly. The dark eyes shone like Doran’s, even more dangerous and oozing of bloodlust… 

 _A viper’s eyes,_ Catelyn thought.

“Doran will not send our army marching north. No, they will defend Dorne and its people, Lady Stark. But me, I was the second son, the spare to Doran. When Trystane was borne and followed by his little sister Arienne, Dorne’s heir is enough. Since I was young I’ve traveled from Braavos to Lys, from Skagos to Southshield. I walked through the Dothraki sea. I even forged five chains in Old Town before it bored me. I went to fight in Mereen’s darkest pits… but it bored me, too. So I joined the Second Sons, befitting of my line, wasn’t it?” he chuckled merrily. 

Catelyn didn’t know what to say at that. 

“What I’m going to tell you, my lady, shall not leave this room, do I have your word?”

“If you help my son’s cause, then yes, my lord, you have my word.”

Oberyn smiled. “Dorne, through me, will help you to get your revenge. We have the same interests, after all. Together we will erase house Lannister from history. Doran will deny his involvement in this, sitting idly in Sunspear with his heirs. Your two men that had just left will confirm that we, the Martells, turned down offers from Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon.”

The desert wind was blowing from the arched window, bringing sand with it. Temperature was a funny thing in Dorne; scorching hot in the day but eerily cold like the north during nighttime. One look at Oberyn Martell’s handsome face and she saw his determination plastered all over. The man was not joking; he wants blood and war, in his own way. She took time gulping down the wine in her goblet, reflecting on his words just now. 

“You told me about erasing House Lannister…”

“Yes. The assassination of Tywin Lannister, Cersei Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, and all those bearing the proud roaring lion.” Oberyn smiled at her surprise. 

“What about your nephew’s betrothal to the Lannister princess?”

“ _Baratheon,_ ” he corrected her merrily, “When house Lannister falls, given the news Stannis had spread throughout the seven kingdoms, she will be worthless. Especially if Stannis successfully claims the Iron Throne, she will be seen as threat, as will the children she delivers someday. Doran did not wish to continue their betrothal. Actually, the Princess fell into your son’s hands are better; it gave a reason for Dorne to remain passive.”

The new information she obtained gave her a headache. She hoped Ned was by her side, or Robb, so that she could share the burden… but Ned was dead, and Robb was hundreds of kilometers away. Her fate and her children depended on how she must give Robb as many supporters as possible in the War of The Five Kings.

One king has fallen; who knows who is next?

The hair on her neck stood eerily when she realized someone was standing behind her, slipping silently, and she turned to see who it was. She almost let out a muffled scream when she saw the girl; fair with golden hair, dimples bloom in her cheeks.

 _The Lannister girl!_ was Catelyn’s first thought, before she recognized the girl’s eyes were deep blue and not green. The girl’s hair also short with no curls, cut just below the chin.

“Lady Stark,” she purred, gentle and soft almost like humming a melody.

“My daughter, Tyene.” Oberyn announced proudly. 

She has heard about Oberyn Martell’s natural daughters, _the sand snakes,_ people called them; cunning and dangerous like their father. Oberyn had fathered them on different women.

Something seemed to float and landed with a loud _thud_ behind Tyene. Catelyn gasped when she saw another woman standing straight in front of her. _Did she just jump from the ceiling?_ Catelyn glared at the woman; she wears a man’s breeches, calf-length linen tunic and a belt of copper suns. A whip and round shield of steel and copper strapped to her slender waist.

“Obara Sand, my lady.” the second woman introduced herself. She does not have her half-sister’s beauty; the hair was rat-brown tied to a knot, with close-set black eyes and broad jaw. Yet her face was as determined as her half-sister, the eyes just as bloodlust as her father. These two must be his two eldest.

“My two eldest daughters,” Oberyn smiles proudly, confirming her suspicion. 

“What is the meaning of this?” she didn’t mean for her voice to be cold and distant, yet it was what she felt. 

“The vengeance you’re looking for, my lady. The Mockingbird offered Dorne a seat in Joffrey’s council and I am the delegation my brother will send on his behalf.”

\---

She wanted to send a raven to Robb, telling him that she rides back to him as fast as she can. She wanted to send another raven to Winterfell too, to Bran and Rickon, her babies, telling them that she is safe and she is trying her best to help Robb and that they will be home soon… but she was advised it was not wise to do so. 

Moreover, Robb must have been very deep in the Westerlands, moving places as he successfully took Tywin Lannister’s lands, castle by castle, mines by mines. The absence of news about him made Catelyn believes Robb is alive. If he is injured or—Gods forbid—dead, surely the news would be spreading like wildifre throughout the seven kingdoms. She had left Robb for weeks; she cannot wait to return to his side, giving him counsel and support. The information she had learned from the Martells must also be conveyed immediately.

Oberyn and Doran have conspired their plans well for years, plotting silently. They were just waiting for the right opportunity, a commotion, to set their revenge in motion and the War of the Five Kings gave them just that. 

When they left Sunspear, Oberyn rides on his large black horse, looking prowess even in his damask. The confidence he radiated made her a little wary. He only took a handful of household guards, men he claimed he personally trained and sparred with for years since he came back to Dorne from his adventures. 

It is not an army, even fewer than a hundred men, but it was a relief that at least Dorne would not send any troops or assistance to the capital.

The plan Oberyn shared with her and ser Rodrik was leaving her many details; all she knows was Tyene will be in the Great Sept of Baelor with the High Septon, while Obara returns with her to Robb. Oberyn himself will be in King’s Landing, waiting, as he sits in the small council apparently as a token of good faith to bring Dorne’s support for the iron throne. 

_If only the Lannisters know…_

She glanced at Obara Sand; the girl was dressed in grey tunic and trousers, a black cloak draped over her shoulder. She did not wear any of her house sigils, and her hair has now been cut shorter so at first glance she looks like a teenage boy instead of a woman. Obara returned her gaze and nod, before urging her horse galloping to the front column. 

“You haven’t told me about Gendry Waters, my lord. What are your plans for the boy?”

Catelyn and Oberyn rode some distance away from their group, bidding a moment to speak one last time before parted ways. Catelyn will take a ship from Planky Town, across the Narrow Sea and land as close as possible to Crackclaw Point. 

“To support Stannis Baratheon’s claim, of course, Lady Stark,” he answered nonchalantly.

“And how is it done?”

“Rest assured, my lady, the lad is better hidden in Sunspear until the time he is needed. There is nothing you need to worry, except battles that will soon come upon us. Pray that your son and all those on his side come out victorious. We are going to need that.”

“My daughter is still in King’s Landing…”

“I will find her.” Oberyn said. There was a sense of confidence in his voice that made Catelyn somehow breathe a sigh of relief. At least her daughter will have a friend in the Red Keep.

They separated not far from the city gate, Oberyn and his entourage rode towards Prince’s Pass, while Catelyn stopped at Planky Town. 

She wore a hood and veil that covered her face and auburn hair, as Doran suggested. There were no banners on display. They went to the port where Doran already prepared a ship that will drop them off at Crackclaw Point, before resuming their journey to Gulltown and White Harbor. Their journey should be faster by the sea, particularly when the winds were kind. 

In seven days she set foot on land again and race her horse as fast as possible to find Robb.

Before that, she sent ser Perwyn Frey to find Stannis Baratheon. Every commoner they met gave word that Stannis was almost at the gates of King’s Landing, surrounding the capital by land and sea alike.

Catelyn could only hope she was not too late.

“It is important that you meet Stannis himself and give the letter only to him, Ser. Remember, to Stannis only and not to other person, not even his Hand or his Priestess.”

“Yes, my lady,”

The letter was written hastily, with only a grey wolf seal.

 _In the darkest pit of vengeance we have found an ally,_ she wrote. _Make sure Sansa Stark is safe._


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello  
> Sorry I am not so often writing notes ^^"  
> This is a therapeutic writing for me, a coping mechanism for my mental health.  
> Apologies again for any misspelling, grammar error that *certainly* I did not intend!  
> I've no beta, no proof-reader so far other than a few apps-and English is not my native-language.  
> Also, please refer again to Warnings and Tags to make sure that is what you get in this fic :)  
>   
> thank you for sticking in so far in this! Much appreciated!  
> x

**MYRCELLA**

Robb asked her to come to his pavilion that evening. She had just finished her dinner with Lady Brienne when Robb’s squire, Olyvar Frey, came with the invitation. Pia tightened Robb’s surcoat on her shoulder and she was escorted by Lady Brienne and Olyvar to the royal tent.

Along the way she noticed men busy sharpening swords, tending to their armors or just sitting by the fire. Some of them glanced at her, making her shrunk beneath Robb’s coat.

“They hate me,” she heard herself say, tired with the looks people throw at her.

“Better the hate that is given plainly, than someone who is nice but stabs you in the back, Princess.” Brienne slightly sped up her pace. “Come,”

They passed a pavilion bearing a soaring silver eagle. Ser Patrek had just stepped out of the tent when their eyes met and Myrcella returned the man’s smile. He was with ser Daryn Hornwood and a large man she recognized as the Greatjon Umber, all three clad in their armors. She could feel ser Patrek’s eyes followed her until she entered Robb’s tent.

Myrcella just realized that Robb’s pavilion was erected surrounded by other pavilions that must be his companions of noble birth. She did not see Grey Wind, thinking the beast might already inside Robb’s tent. Yet when they finally entered the warm royal tent, the direwolf was nowhere to be seen. 

Fire was burning in the braziers. Without his men cramming the royal tent, she could see how practical Robb kept his space. There were no personal items whatsoever. One large wooden table is used to hold councils; one smaller table across the tent and on her right a lattice folding screen gives privacy to what lays behind it. Blankets of fur slipped carelessly, hanging from his bed.

An opened large wooden chest was placed beside the lattice where Robb’s armor was bundled up for safety. The iron glows, reflecting the flame. Robb rose from his seat behind the large wooden table to greet them. He was wearing a black gambeson that features a strap-and-buckle front closure, handcrafted in heavy-duty cotton. His sword strapped to his hip by a brown leather scabbard. 

“Thank you, Lady Brienne, Olyvar.”

They were left alone in the tent. Robb waved his hand at the empty chair across the table, where she sat silently, waiting. The fire from braziers at the corners of his tent was reflecting lights to Robb’s eyes. She couldn’t help but noticed how his presence always made her nervous. They sat across each other, separated by the wooden table, staring without a word.

“Have you eaten?” he finally broke the silence.

“I have, Your Grace,”

He looked surprised by her answer. “Of course,” he kind of slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples with one hand. “It was too late, then. I spent too much time taking care of things, I forgot the time. Of course, you already have your dinner,” he cleared his throat. 

Silence fell on them once again, awkwardly.

There was another smaller table at the far end of the tent, just next to one of the braziers. On it, she saw plates of untouched food and a jug of wine. 

“It was a delicious soup,” she told him, unable to hold back a smile. “You should try it before it gets cold, Your Grace.”

“This is very embarrassing. I was hoping for a _‘No, I have not eaten, Your Grace’_ , so I could lead you to that table,” he confessed, smiling back. “But… yes, I really forgot the time. You’ve eaten.”

Parchments, quills, and ink bottles lying on the large wooden table. Robb tidied a few before him, dropping parchments and maps into a straw basket under the table.

“I’ve sent ravens earlier, thanks to your input last night,” he said softly. “I hope in a few weeks I can get a reply. I still have to go ahead with my plan, though. Stannis is so close now. But we are also getting closer to Casterly Rock. I hope this war will soon be over so we can all go home.”

“Your Grace, will any mediation take place?”

“Are you thinking about Jaime Lannister and you?” Robb forced a smile. “Yes, I believe there will be parley. On my behalf, at least.” When she didn’t respond, he leaned to the table and whispered, “Princess. What are you thinking about?”

“What will happen to me?” she blurted out the question without thinking.

“As I told you, I will bring you back to your kin.”

“My family… they, they are in King’s Landing…” she dared not to ask further, fearing for what was in her mind and also in Robb’s answer.

Myrcella had realized Robb being in the Westerlands meant to break her Grandfather’s army into two, making Tywin Lannister had a difficult choice to make; to ride out and meet Robb’s forces in battle and abandoning their defensive position in Casterly Rock, or fall back to King’s Landing and help defend the city from Stannis Baratheon.

But what if Tywin Lannister abandoned the Rock? 

What if her Grandfather thought it’d be better to go to King’s Landing to keep Joffrey on the throne?

Something terrible disturbs her mind, like a hunch or feeling she couldn’t really shake away that something bad will happen. But this is war. Of course everything bad always happens in war.

His face did not radiate any emotions other than strange calmness. Surely Robb was trained to hide his emotions. Nevertheless, she heard the hollowness in his voice when he finally answered.

“You’re safer if you’re far from King’s Landing when the war is over.”

“Do you mean, _if_ Stannis comes out as the winner?”

Robb did not answer, but from his eyes Myrcella could see he hoped her to stop asking. 

She lowered her eyes from Robb’s face to the table. Light from candles and braziers fell to the table, illuminating the remaining pile of parchments.

One of them caught her attention. Robb’s handwriting curled small and tight in sharp strokes written either with confidence or passion, penned thickly in black ink. It was the kind of handwriting people will spend time to appreciate the beauty of the written form. The letters were stringing together, word by word, beautifully intertwined to form a sentence. 

Robb realized where her eyes were staring at, because he pulled the parchment, looking rather shy.

“Stuff I was working on...” he mumbled. For a moment he looked doubtful, but then held out the parchment to her. “Perhaps, you can give me your advice again, Princess,”

> _I was born among the bodies._
> 
> _I was hurried forward, and sealed a thin life for myself._
> 
> _I have shortened my name and walk with a limp._
> 
> _We cannot live on cold blood alone._
> 
> _In a dream, I am ungendered, and the moon is just the moon having a thought of itself._

She looked up to him, stunned, then back at his writing again. 

> _I am a wolf masked in the scent of its prey and I am driven, hawk-like, to the dark center of things._
> 
> _I have grasped my eager heart in my own talons._
> 
> _Somewhere there are phantoms having their own funerals over and over again._
> 
> _Somewhere, a tired man won’t let go of his dead wife’s hand._
> 
> _Death is just a child come to take us by the hand and lead us gently away._
> 
> _Fear is the paralyzing agent, the viper that swallows us living and whole._
> 
> _And the devil wears a crooked badge, multiples everything by three._

“Do you write this yourself, Your Grace?”

“Yes.”

“It is beautiful. I—I didn’t know you enjoy poetry...” 

“Well, truthfully, I don’t consider what I write is poetry at all.” Robb exhales, “I just enjoy writing, stringing words on empty parchment… and after what I saw in this war, it only increases the need to pour my thought on paper, you know?”

“I think I understand that. You need something to occupy your mind, to take off some of the burdens away.”

“Something like that, yes…”

The comfortable silence embraced them for the third time before she found her voice again.

“I liked it, really,” 

He gave her a small smile. “Thank you, Princess.”

At that moment his stomach ringing loudly. Robb looked down to hid his face behind his hand.

"Gods. I don’t look so regal right now, do I?” he forced himself to laugh as he stood up from his chair. “I think it’s time for me to taste that soup.”

That night she heard Robb talk longer than before. 

He still looked tired, sleep deprived, but his face radiates a merriment she cannot refuse. She noticed how his hand occasionally rose to rub the bridge of his nose; how his fingers tapping on his goblet when he told her the mischiefs he did as a child, as if he was afraid of being looked down upon by her. But why would she?

She enjoyed listening to his stories. She had never seen anyone so eager to tell his life with sincere happiness, she even honestly did not know there was such a happy childhood. He grew up surrounded by nature and animals, to be outside almost all the time.

Robb told her about the long summer they had in the past years and the bountiful harvest for the upcoming winter, of how his education as heir apparent began when he was four years old; reading, writing, and counting. At six he started training to wield a sword and in archery, along with Jon, who is also of Robb’s age. His half-brother became his best friend, a confidante, and also competing friends. When Robb excelled at every sport and swordplay, Jon is better at counting. Both of them loved reading and only to Jon, Robb showed the poems he wrote.

Lord Eddard groomed Robb to be the next Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North by included Robb in his council, as young as a ten-year-old. His father made Robb stood by his side for hours a day as petitions and disputed were heard. Robb listened and watched, did not complain even though he could hear the sound of his younger siblings playing from the yard. With a little laugh, he told her that he used to be jealous of his younger siblings every time they boasted about their adventures in Wintertown or Wolfswood, while his legs ached from standing at his father’s side. 

It was only when he grew older he begins to understand why he was treated differently.

He assured her there were no dragons sleep below Winterfell, rather than the castle was built over a series of natural hot springs, and there were no ghosts in their crypts. He and Sansa did not like going down to the crypts, though, where Winter Kings and their ancestral Lords of Winterfell were buried. Jon and Arya were the braver ones who used to play hide and seek among its stones crates and glaring stone faces. 

One day, Robb told her, Bran took them into the crypt where Jon and Arya were already waiting with flour covering their bodies from head to toe. Unfortunately, Jon stumbled over a rock and fell face first, broken his nose in the process while trying to scare them. It was not in vain, though; Sansa and Robb screamed and ran out of the crypt, believing to see actual ghosts. Later when they returned to the castle Jon and Arya were captured by Septa Mordane and received a long agonizing lecture from Lord Eddard. 

Myrcella tried to remember rows of grey houses built of logs, undressed stones and thatched roofs when Robb told her about Wintertown. It has a market square with wooden stalls for produce and goods at its center. Every time he played there, nearly all the sellers slipped an apple, or strawberries, sometimes even candies, to his pocket whispering how they appreciated the Starks of Winterfell. 

He always comes home with a full stomach and a bag full of souvenirs. His mother, however, made sure the sellers get coins for every item her children went home with. He’d later learned that the sellers refused the coins.

“I learned a valuable lesson that day,” Robb said, smiling, “that nothing is more despicable than respect based on fear. Respect is earned, not given.”

She sensed that Robb was very popular among the residents, considering how many people respected his father. Moreover, Robb is the reflection of his father with a strong sense of justice and honor.

“...and there was this girl in Wintertown, we used to play hide and seek. Her father was a shoemaker, I think. We talked almost every day and sometimes I brought Jon to play together. What I liked about her was she never treated Jon differently. She even called him _little lord,_ which made Jon blushed! No one ever called him _little lord_ before. We spent time outside The Smoking Log, the alehouse, peering inside to made up stories about the lives of the patrons.”

“That sounds nice. What’s her name?”

He looked ashamed. “I… forgot. I didn’t see her again when my studies started demanding me to be more present in Winterfell.”

“Will you forget me too?”

“No,” he answered firmly. “Never.”

The candles began to burn even thinner as she was amazed to hear Robb’s story. 

She gasped at the thought of Robb on his first wild boar hunting in the Wolfswood when he was eleven. A boar managed to break through them and butting Robb’s horse almost knocked him to the ground. Fortunately, spears finished off the boar before it could have a chance to tear up his horse’s leg. 

She was touched to hear how maester Luwin found one of Robb’s poems and instead of teasing him, the maester gave access to more poetry. Robb made him swear not to tell anyone, of course. She laughed when Robb told her about how he and his siblings took turns carrying the newborn Rickon and he wet them all with his pee. 

She applauded excitedly when Jon found the direwolf pups in the Wolfswood and Lord Eddard allowed each of them to care for one. Grey Wind was the first to approach Robb and licked his fingertips, bonding with him emotionally. The direwolf namesake comes from its color and speed.

There was a moment when Robb realized he was dominating the conversation; he looked mortified but Myrcella was more interested to know Robb as he is, other than his King in The North persona. After all, there wasn’t much she could say about herself. For the first time she realized how shielded and superficial her life was before the war.

She asked herself, how does it feel to dance in the rain, to immerse your feet in the mud so deep that your feet stick in your boots? 

How does it feel to lay on the thick moss lining the Godswood floor, feeling the cold wind on your face? To fall asleep lulled by stories about giants and cannibals lurking beyond The Wall, and of the Targaryen’s Dance of Dragons?

When the candles finally burned out and the remaining light comes from the fire in the braziers, Robb reached out and helped her up from the chair. His congeniality made her comfortable and drowsy, and she liked the warm, safe feeling. He took her back himself to her pavilion, calmly slipping her hand behind his arm and walked her through rows of his men’s pavilions—now most of them have retreated into their warm tents.

The moon shone brightly that night, like a big fireball in the sky. She did not want to be separated so quickly from Robb.

“Thank you,” she said quietly when they reached her tent. “I really like what you wrote, too. I hope I can read your other works, Your Grace. It is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

His smile was warmer than the summer sun, more beautiful than the prairie he had shown her. A kind of smile that make you couldn’t look away. She could feel her cheeks burning under his gaze. 

“Good night, Princess.” he said.

“Good night, Your Grace.” she replied.

For a long time she lay on her pallet, watching the flames dance on the candle she left on. She was sleepy and realized the night was getting late, but refused to yield to drowsiness. She had never felt so warm and fuzzy in her life. Pia lay beside her, yawning. 

“Pia,”

“Yes, milady?”

“Do you love Walton?” 

Instantly her friend’s eyes opened wide, the face turned red. Myrcella took Pia’s hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I knew that I cared about him,” Pia answered, blushing prettily. 

Isn’t it funny, if she didn’t run away she wouldn’t be here now, resting on a pallet in the middle of the woods, surrounded by strangers, and thinking about a man who had never bothered her heart and mind before…?

She should not feel happy. 

Perhaps, she should be afraid. Even though she still does not recognize the foreign feeling that haunts her, but she knows she does not want the feeling to end.

 

For those who are not involved directly in the war, being in a military campaign is arguably boring. There was not much she could do, and repeatedly hearing the preparation of men who are going to the battlefield made her uneasy. 

Several times she heard Pia and Walton argue; Walton wanted to prove himself by going to war, while Pia wants him to stay with them in the camp. She could not completely blame Pia. She heard her friend cried at night, before sneaking out of the tent and not returning until hours later. Their relationship seemed tenuous for the past few days; Pia always shot Walton with a sad look and he, too, glancing at Pia (if he thought no one was paying attention) with an expression of a beaten man.

“Let’s go for a bath,” Myrcella pulled a reluctant Pia by hand, hoping to cheer her up. “Leave Walton in the tent.”

“It’s midnight and it’s dangerous out there. Don’t think you can get rid of me, girl,” Walton gruffly warned, sticking his head into their tent.

 _If only Walton knew she had spent the night alone out there, without escort…_  

Midnight falls like velvet that covered them all in black when they left her pavilion, headed to the vernal pool. Walton followed behind them without saying much. She knew Pia and Walton had argued again earlier, of wanting to march with the men on the morrow. 

“...for a stupid knighthood, he’s better than most of those entitled knights!” Pia grumpily told her as she laid a cloth on the ground to put their spare clothes and stockings.

“He talked nothing but his dream of being knighted while I was at Riverrun,” Myrcella giggled. “Sometimes I think ser Patrek gets so annoyed that he finally gives Walton the knighthood right then and there, just to keep him quiet!”

Both of them burst out laughing. 

“Do you know that I can hear your conversation?” Walton exasperatedly called from behind a tree.

Pia sighed and helped Myrcella out from her dress. “He can marry a nice girl with that knighthood,” she whispered glumly. “a good maiden, who’d give him sons and daughters.”

Her remark somehow made Myrcella sad. 

“But you’re the best for him. I’ve never seen Walton as happy as when he is with you.”

“My Princess is too kind,” Pia smiles as she stripped Myrcella from her smallclothes. “but sometimes, life doesn’t go as our wishes. I believe one day he’ll get that knighthood he craves so much.”

Myrcella sensed what Pia didn’t tell her—that Pia had the same unrest, nagging feeling of wanting the best for the man she cares, yet at the same time she understands she might lose him in the process.

She looked up and could see dozens of scattered stars in the black sky; it was like a song for the eyes. The faraway lights called to her heart, promising of another lifetime. 

 _But who needs a lifetime without Robb Stark?_ she thought. 

“I understand your feelings,” Myrcella whispered to her friend. 

They plunged into the water, splashing on the edge of the pool while talking quietly so Walton could no longer eavesdrop. The thirty meters wide pool is surrounded by thick brushes, with large trees whose giant roots entered the pond like tangled snakes. They bathed calmly, talking in low voice, covered in the shadows of trees and bushes.

Pia goes first to the surface of the pool to dry off. Myrcella heard him grumbled again, making her turn her head.

“What is it?”

“I’m so stupid! I forgot to bring my spare dress,”

“Wear mine to fetch yours and take another one for me in the tent.”

“But, milady—,”

“Go on,” Myrcella urged her. “It’s just a dress.”

“I am very, very sorry, milady,”

“Pia, it’s alright. Use my spare and be back soon.”

Pia blushed furiously as she helped herself into Myrcella’s spare gown, that at least two size smaller for her. “I will tell Walton to stay here.”

Before Myrcella could answer, another voice vibrated from across the pool.

“Take the guard with you. I can look after the princess.”

Both girls shrieked and glared to the darkness of the night, only to see leaves waving in the wind. Then from behind a tree which roots stick out and into the pool like a tangle of threads, a figure comes out of the shadows. His slow movements barely make a sound, other than waves of rippling water on the surface of the pool.

Myrcella’s eyes glowered at Robb Stark in the pool; he was looking calm and even slightly blushing. 

“Hi,” he sheepishly greeted her.

 _“You!”_ she almost screamed in disbelief, forgetting her courtesies.

“I was here first,” Robb hurriedly explained. “Please don’t be angry.” He gives a look of apology to her and Pia. “Go on, now, fetch another spare cloth for the princess. She will be safe here with me.”

Pia looks like she doesn't want to leave. She glanced at Myrcella, who nodded despite being agitated at the prospect of being alone in the pool with Robb, before bowing and immediately run towards the camp.

“I didn’t see you!” she protested when Pia had disappeared into the night. 

“Here the whole time,” he gestured to his surroundings. “Even so, welcome, and enjoy bathing with me.”

She was a little annoyed because Robb was even teasing her.

“How could you? You—you let us into the pool when we were… naked?!”

Robb choked back a laugh, “I closed my eyes the whole time.”

“How do I know you are not lying?”

He looked hurt by her remark. “Looks like you have to trust me, just like I trusted you the night I found you alone here. I… I thought I better just stay still and close my eyes until both of you done bathing.”

“Are you alone? Where are your companions? Aren't you supposed to have your Kingsguard with you?” she looked around to their surroundings, afraid someone would find them in such a compromising situation.

“It’s just me,”

The water defined his well-toned body, making her a bit weak in the knees just by seeing his bare chest. She tried to maintain her composure, reminding herself not to blush by constantly looking away to water lilies floating near them. 

Robb, on the other hand, was calm and didn’t show any discomfort. A thought came to her that this is not the first time Robb was alone with a naked woman. It was not uncommon for the sons of Lords to play around with women, be it commoners or high born. 

It made her feel somewhat panicked. 

He grew close to where she stood in the middle of the pool, disregarding the fact that she was naked. When he was close enough, she turned her back to Robb and sank deeper into the water. 

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he called softly. 

“I am not afraid,” she countered, but her voice shaking. “Where is Grey Wind?”

“You prefer my direwolf to me?”

“Yes!”

“I’ll pretend that I was not hurt by that.”

She could hear the sloshing sound when Robb moved to her, the hammering heart inside her ribcage threatening to jump out of her chest. She kept her back to Robb with both hands hugging herself.

“Can—can you please not getting any closer!” 

The sloshing sound of him moving stopped right away. “Alright. Don’t be angry.”

“Shouldn't you be preparing for battle in your tent?” 

“A man needs a bath too, even in the eve of war. And your part of the woods is lovely.”

She wanted to smack herself for how stupid she was, questioning herself of why she repeatedly trapped in embarrassing situations in front of Robb. Once her shock and anger subsided a bit, the realization that she had not properly addressed him made her want to drown herself in the pool. She opened her mouth to apologize when Robb’s voice preceded her again.

“What are you doing, bathing in the middle of the night?”

She could ask the same of him but chose not to pry. “Pia said it’s safer for me than during the day.”

“Oh. Smart woman,” she could hear the odd cheerfulness in his deep voice.

It seemed like an eternity, standing in the middle of the pool with Robb. She still had her back to him, worried to face him.

“How did you get this?” Out of sudden, he touched her shoulder blade, sending jolts throughout her body.

She did not want to answer, but it came out of her mouth anyway. “Joff.” she whispered, feeling dread crept to her spine just by saying her older brother’s name.

“What did he do?” 

Though she cannot see his face but she recognized the anger in his voice. How she wished Pia would quickly return with her spare clothes.

Long time ago she had anticipate disgust and anger when someday her lord husband sees her. Disgust, because she come to him a broken woman. Anger, because she was not strong enough to prevent it. 

The maesters have tried various methods and ointments to rub out the scars. Their efforts paid off; now there are only five silvery smooth lines stretching from her shoulder-blades to her midsection. The skin has healed many years ago; the discoloration is now glowing wet under the moonlight.

_Joffrey was fond of certain blades even when he was a little boy._

“Are you disgusted?” _I am not the perfect princess, after all..._

“Why should I be, when you’re perfect to me?” 

She chokes back the sudden lump in her throat, her head throbbing from holding back the tears from falling. _Why do you always cry,_ Robb’s voice from the night he was angry taunted her again.

 _Don’t cry,_ she scolded herself. 

Using one finger Robb traced one scar, from one end to the other, sending her to goose-bumped at the touch. With all her might she had to resist the urge to arch her back at him, to give in to his gentle touch. Slowly he grabbed her shoulder, directing her to turn around. Her tears fell unexpectedly as soon as she caught his eyes.

She angrily opened her mouth trying to defend herself from any mockery he might make, but Robb didn’t say a word. He simply uses his thumb to wipe the offending tears from her cheeks. For the third time now already.

“No, please… I hate to see you cry,” 

She hiccupping through her tears, humiliated by the situation.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was not there.” Robb said.

“Wh—what?” she blinked, unprepared to received soft spoken words. 

“When he hurt you, I’m sorry I was not there,” he repeated behind gritted teeth. Astonished by his reaction, momentarily she forgot how Robb had stood right in front of her. “That little fu—” he didn’t finish and looked away. 

No one has ever shown anger at Joffrey's treatment of her. 

When Joffrey hurt her, she was immediately sent to the maesters to be treated but nothing happened to her brother. King Robert once reprimanded Joffrey, yet it didn’t stop Joff from seeking her. No one truly cared. The maesters were silent every time they saw her wounds, and even her mother thought it was just a child’s play. Only when uncle Jaime intervened and stood guard at her door, did Joffrey’s visit really stop. 

“Bloody hell. Now I wish I was the one who marched to King’s Landing!”

She pulled away from him, bending her knees so that she sank deeper to her chin in the cold water, hiding from his stormy eyes. 

 _Please give me one reason to hate you._ _Just one._

“Why are you so kind to me?”

“Should I not? Will it be easier for me, if I'm not kind to you?” sadness clouded his features. “The world would be a better place with a little kindness, wouldn’t it? And you make it best by being in it.”

“Milady!” 

Pia’s voice boomed in the dark woods, panting as she had run to and from the pool. She had discarded the dress Myrcella let her wore, with a bundle of Myrcella’s new clothes on her arms. Walton was right behind her, bowing to Robb before quickly stood behind a tree.

“I will close my eyes again, alright?” Robb withdrew to his spot behind the tangled mangrove roots. He even turned his back to them, to give Myrcella more sense of privacy.

“What did he do?” Pia whispered angrily as she helped Myrcella out of the pool.

“He didn’t do anything.”

“But you are crying, milady,” Pia threw Robb’s back a chastise look.

“It’s…” Myrcella sighed, feeling the tightness of the cold night air. She trembled. “It’s happy tears, I think...”

Pia dried her body with a cloth and put clean clothes on her. When Myrcella put Robb’s surcoat on her shoulder, she glanced at the pool where Robb was still standing with his back to them.

“I heard you will leave on the morrow, Your Grace.”

“I am,” he tilted his head slightly without looking back. “Forgive me for I disturbed your bath.”

“No, you were right that you are here first… If anyone has to apologize, it’d be me. Also for being rude to you…”

“You are never rude to me.”

His generous reply once again embarrassed her. “Goodnight, Your Grace. I wish you well on the morrow.”

“Goodnight. Myrcella,” he said her name ever so softly, she almost missed it. 

The next day men lined up to march. It was a rather cold morning. They were numerous, lined up neatly with grim faces under their iron helmets. It was unusual for her to go out of her tent to see the men, but this time she opened up the overlapping canvas door and stepped out. 

For the first time the men ignored her, too focused on facing their fate on the battlefield she becomes invisible. Gods know how many of them will not return. Her heart already mourns for them, whispering prayers.

Robb rode in the front row along with Grey Wind, but when their eyes met he trotted towards her direction.

He was accompanied by Lady Brienne in her cobalt blue armor and ser Patrek Mallister in his purple and silver.

“I wanted to see you,” he said, without preamble. “Who knows if I meant to be dead on the morrow?”

She was scared by his words, not knowing he was joking or not. “Don’t say that! Please!” She took Robb’s gauntlet hands; it was cold under her touch. She wished she could touch his skin, to feel the warmth of flesh instead of steel.

 _Come back to me,_ she pleads in her heart. She wanted to say it aloud to him but didn’t dare. Robb bent down from his horse and slipped something into her palm. He didn’t say a word, other than seeing her with his blue eyes. This was the first time she sent him off to war, fighting her family. 

“Be safe,” she finally managed to say, “I… I will be waiting,”

“Are you going to sing the song of the seven for me?” he grinned.

She blushed. “Always,” _Don’t die. Come back to me._

He opened his mouth to reply, but ser Patrek interrupted. “Your Grace, it’s time.”

Robb turned his attention and nodded. 

In the distance, someone blew a horn. Footsteps of thousands men-at-arms echoed on the hard ground as Grey Wind howled from the front of the line. She watched Robb’s back trotted farther and farther away on his horse until he finally disappeared behind the hills. That was when she looked down at the paper Robb tucked into her hand. 

Carefully, she opened the neatly folded parchment.

A buttercup fell from inside the letter as Robb’s handwriting greeted her.

> _The woods are lovely, dark and deep_
> 
> _But I have promises to keep_
> 
> _and miles to go_
> 
> _before I go to sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my Robb writes poetry.  
> Credits:  
> \- “Nothing is more despicable than respect based on fear.” a quote by Albert Camus;  
> \- The poem about Robb's experiences of war was titled "Do Not Speak of The Dead" by Cecillia Llompart;  
> \- The poem Robb wrote to Myrcella was titled "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost.  
> 


	17. Chapter 17

**SANSA**

She was tired, she wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath her blanket and sleep; the purple welts covered her thighs, her midsection and even now her forearms. For a long time she had learned to be quiet, not moving a muscle, nor conveying any emotion as they beat her. Each passing moon, the beatings became more severe as Robb getting closer to them, securing victory after victories. Sometimes she even lost consciousness only to wake up in her chamber. A Maester or two would smear her wounds with various ointments so as not to leave any marks.

Her scalp aches every time they styled her hair in an elaborate southern style, full of pins and gems. The hairnet they put on her head was like an invisible shackle, confining her. She felt like there was a bird’s nest on her head. But she has survived through each passing second, minute after minute, day after day until weeks turn into moons. Soon, twelve moons have passed followed by another. And she stayed, and she waited.

The clothes she wears dominated by Lannister’s colors, showing that she is theirs; but as a hostage or Joffrey’s betrothed, she doesn’t know.

The Tyrells hoped to make Margaery the Queen, the sole reason they ran to King’s Landing to bend the knee even before Renly’s corpse went cold. Sansa knew it is only a matter of time before she is put aside. She did not complain, of course, or feel sad. Or should she?

She knew that Stannis Baratheon is near, somewhere down the Kingsroad, perhaps with Robb on his side. The Young Wolf, they called her brother now, and her heart soared with joy. Even hearing his nickname the people in the Red Keep were terrified. He never kept hostages, they say, confident by having the Kingslayer and princess Myrcella as prisoners.

The same fear oozing from every corner of the city. Margaery Tyrell told her the Great Sept of Baelor never empty of worshipers. The numbers of Gold Cloaks patrolling the streets were doubled, and curfew imposed. Everyone still remembered the last time King’s Landing was fallen; of how the Lannisters looted and raped and put most people to the sword… But holding a sword or not, every human being is the same; when their adrenaline peaked, mixed with anger and blood-thirst, the mentality of the mob had only one purpose: _destruction._

No need to wait until the day Robb and Stannis pull down King’s Landing gates, Sansa had felt the horror when dirty hands pulled her down from her mare. Their angry screams seemed to come from another world. Right next to her she saw how the mob took down ser Preston Greenfield, a member of Kingsguard, easily stabbed and hacked to pieces. 

 _He used to beat me too,_ was Sansa’s thought as she saw the mob dragged his body away. 

If only there was no Sandor Clegane, perhaps she, too, would be dead and left in some dark alleys in Flea Bottom. 

Sometimes she still dreamed of that day when the Bread Riot broke. Joffrey has a violent sense of justice, fueled by entitlement. His answer to the screams of his hungry people was to shoot them from the gate of the Red Keep. Adding the shortage of basic foods cut by the Tyrells, the city was in a vengeful mood the day they rode to see Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. Now the common folk preferred Margaery Tyrell as Queen when her family brought foods, forgetting the fact it was Renly and the Tyrells who cut supply lines to the capital.

The Godswood was eerily quiet as always whenever she comes to visit; the red leaves were falling without anyone care to clean up. Stone bench overgrown with moss, and shrubs covered the path to the weirwood tree. Alder and black cottonwood trees surrounded the area, overlooking the Blackwater Rush. It was long forgotten. No one in King’s Landing worship the Old Gods. 

Her body was still aching all over, but she chased away the desire to sleep. The bruises on her thighs made her difficult to kneel by the tree, so she sat on the stone bench. Silently, tears flowed down her cheeks as she remembered her Father, Arya, and her household pupils who were murdered when Joffrey ascended the throne. 

 _Let Robb come,_ she prayed, always the same blind devotion. Lord Eddard taught his children how the weirwood tree watched over them. She needs to believe it now. The wind blew the leaves, one of which fell on Sansa’s lap. Gagging at the sudden desire to scream and claw at her hair, she never complained whenever the sharp tip of the hairpins grazed her scalp. She will endure it, believing her nightmare will end when Robb arrives at the gates of King’s Landing.

_Robb will come, and Robb will kill you all._

Sansa used to prefer her Mother’s new Gods to her Father’s old ones. The songs they sing for the Seven; the sharp, sweet smell of incense and flower offerings laid at the feet of the statutes gave her such calmness. Now everything changes. The Godswood and the grim face carved to the weirwood tree was the only solace friend she has. At this time of the day, Sansa imagined how many candles lit at the Warrior’s altar. Surely the Stranger gets a lot of prayers too, for people begging for protection and a quick, painless death when battle falls upon them.

The Queen and Joffrey thought she is stupid, but Sansa better be labeled as such. Without anyone to talk to, also to be trusted, Sansa learned to be quiet and become invisible. She would sit quietly for hours, knitting, or pretending to read, but her ears listening to every conversation around her. That way, she knew how Robb had devastated the Westerlands, killing Lannister and its followers, and prevented Tywin’s army from reaching the capital. Her heart had been swelled with pride just then. 

She also knows how busy Tyrion going around the city; something to do with an old pyromancer she spotted at the Tower of the Hand... The combined threat of Stannis and Robb caused the whole city to panic.

The only thing uplifting the sullen spirit was the arrival of a group from Dorne, who fulfilled Joffrey’s invitation to fill a place in his small council. Sansa knew better that the Queen and Tyrion were afraid Dorne would go to Stannis’ side. The failure to send princess Myrcella almost cost them another kingdom in the realm. 

When she was recovering from Joffrey’s beatings, dinner was sent to her chamber; boiled eggs, fried fish, pumpkin soup and warm honeyed milk. It was the only good thing that comes out of Joffrey’s abuse, to be left alone. Her family name is the only thing that keep her alive. If she was not a Stark, her head would have been side by side with Stannis’ scouts fixed on spears along the ramparts. The Queen also seemed disgusted by her blue and purple blotchy skin, a tinge of yellow for the almost healed part. Cersei became increasingly impatient every time she laid eyes on Sansa. A slightest discontent put the golden Queen in such an awful mood, and she’d choose to spend the entire day drowning in wine.

 _“Swear to me that your brother is as honorable as your father,”_ the Queen once said in her drunkness. 

 _But even when you knew he was honorable, you still let Joffrey chopped off his head,_ Sansa thought. _What are you afraid of Robb?_

Nevertheless, once her wounds and bruises have healed or can be covered by her dress, Joffrey always wanted to see her in the throne room and the great hall. 

It’s been months since she was no longer seated on the dais with the other royals, not even when she is still Joffrey’s betrothed. Pitying gazes became common to her that she no longer bothered by the stares and the whispers accompanying her in the Red Keep. Every social interactions sent dread in her, but there was also a desire to be included, to be wanted... 

 _Is this what Jon feel,_ she thought, _alone under the dais, forgotten?_

She thought of her siblings all the time. The hope that one day she could meet them again, to be home in Winterfell, made her not throwing herself from the highest tower in Maegor’s Holdfast. 

But of Jon, she think of the most.

More than once she toyed with the idea of naming her son Robb, after the bravest brother she dearly loved, to spite Joffrey. That is if they ever get married and she is not set aside in favor of Margaery. But then a memory came to her, of a dark-haired boy, slim and eyes so grey it almost appeared like black, leaning closer…

_“A bastard is not a knight. He does not deserve to kiss a lady,”_

His face was ashamed and apologetic before running away. She was about nine, and Jon eleven. They were in the yard playing maiden, dragons, and knight. Arya never wanted to be the maiden, so Sansa always happily took the role. Robb was the knight, and Jon… she never let Jon became the knight, not when she was playing the maiden.

 _Does Jon still remember it?_ she thought sadly. _Is he holding grudge against her, for always calling him a half-brother?_  

How she must have hurt his feelings by telling him that he belongs in the Night’s Watch, and had been happy when Jon said he’d go when Father went to King’s Landing. She was cruel. Only now did she realize that perhaps life wasn’t easy for Jon, and she had always been on her Mother’s side whenever it came to Jon—a bastard—being in Winterfell.

She remembered Robb and the shoemaker’s daughter messed up behind a bush, or a tree, thinking that Sansa would never know. She did, though, even Arya, who rolled her eyes and made puking sound. Robb was tall and strong and handsome; the eldest and heir, whose legs little Rickon clung to when he was afraid. Arya had remarked that boys would grow up stupid, even their Robb, when it comes to women. Sansa thought the opposite. She did not lie when she told the Queen that Robb was as honorable as Father, even more.

She also recalled how one day her brother was looking for Jon and found them in the reading chamber. Robb was visibly flustered and shaking. They spoke in hushed tones, but Sansa hid behind a bookshelf to eavesdrop.

 _“Then why you didn’t do it?”_ there was amusement in Jon’s voice.

 _“Because I don’t want to put a bastard in her, that’s why,”_ Robb was upset. _“I’ve seen how they treated you, even Mother. Why would I want an innocent child to go through it?”_

Recalling the memories made shame crept from the pit of her stomach to her cheek. Why couldn’t she realize it sooner that Jon was really suffering? Why she even add misery to Jon’s life, when he didn’t choose to be born as a bastard?

She had treated Jon like he was an outsider rather than a brother. Now she was a high born treated like a bastard in King’s Landing. The Gods have taught her humility. The world is nothing like she thought; oh, she had learned it the hard way! 

If she came out of this place alive, she’d find Jon and begged for his forgiveness.

-

 

A long time ago she prayed at the feet of the Seven, inside the little sept Eddard Stark built for Catelyn Tully, begging for a chance to escape the North even just for once. 

Not that she doesn't love her homeland; Sansa’s head was full of stories and poems and songs promising all the best life could offer. People often said Northerners are used to a hard, difficult life. Their environment made them that way. The North itself exceeding the other six kingdoms combined, sparsely populated with vast wilderness and snow mountains. The air is always cold, the breeze cruel for unsuspecting strangers. Even during summer, it’d occasionally snow.

They rarely had visitors, especially singers and musicians Sansa dearly craved. During her lifetime in Winterfell they have had only two; both spent a fortnight before departing back south never to come back again. 

When she was old enough she asked if uncle Edmure might want to take her as a ward. Or perhaps, her parents would let her fostered by aunt Lysa? Or one of her aunt’s husband’s bannerman? House Royce was not so bad. She had read stories about the Knights of the Vale who fought in their sparkling and dashing armors. Perhaps she could meet them one day, or betrothed to one of them? It’d bring house Stark significance good, wouldn’t it? She begged, and she prayed, and she never stopped wishing.

 _“Your Father will find you the best man, knight of your dreams. A Lord,”_ her Mother said.

 _“Someone brave, gentle, and strong,”_ her Father promised.

In her young mind, who else would have met those criteria if not the dashing knights from the south?

She should not have heard their conversation. She should never have left her warm bed and the cozy feather blankets. She should not have come to her parents’ room. She even forgot why she was looking for them now.

_“... and Robert is determined to join our Houses by marriage...”_

It was followed by Robb’s name and not hers that came out of her Father’s mouth. 

It was supposed to be Robb and Myrcella. 

How then it turned to her and Joffrey, she did not know. But she was grateful when Lord Eddard accepted King Robert’s appointment as Hand of The King. She had been overjoyed, drunk of dreams when she was brought to King’s Landing. Now the dream tasted of acid.

Perhaps she was not supposed to oppose her Father’s decision when he tried to send Arya and her back to Winterfell. Perhaps she should have trusted her Father more than the Lannisters.... it was too late now. Lord Eddard has died, along with all of her friends and household guards, her Septa, even Arya.

Joffrey was every girls’ dream; handsome, tall, and regal, with hair as golden as the crown itself. She had admired him, loving him with all of her heart, thus trusted Joffrey and Cersei. They repaid her trust with her Father’s head and threatening to give her Robb’s too. If there is one thing she learn in King’s Landing, it was about the importance of family; the best thing she had and she took it for granted. 

The sound of footsteps made her rush to wipe the tears away. She took a deep breath to calm herself before she turned to see a Kingsguard was sent to fetch her. Usually it was Meryn Trant, the lowest of the lowest scum she has ever known. A vile man hidden by the glamour of his armor and white cloak, undeserving. He took the most joy in beating her. The most painful, too, never holding back. 

Today it was one of the Kettlebacks that found her in the Godswood. 

The moment she knew her lone time was over, she slipped into her mask of courtesy and calmness. It did not take long to find out even the friendliest chambermaids kept certain intentions, and all of them reported to the Queen. All of the Kingsguard are also the Queen’s men, except for the Hound and ser Barristan Selmy. 

The Hound prefers to mock her though, and Joffrey dismissed ser Barristan the day he took the Iron Throne. 

“The King summons you.” 

Without a word she stood up and fell in behind him. 

“What other hardship did my betrothed go through this time?” 

Osmund Kettleback shrugged dismissively. Everytime Joffrey sent someone to fetch her, he was always in a sour mood, in need of a punch bag. Sansa hardened her heart while they went through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast in silence. It felt like a very long walk. Each step she took lead her to Joffrey’s torment. But at least, every blow she received meant another victory for Robb, and she could live with that. 

However, the news that awaited her in Joffrey’s chamber was not about Robb.

Rumors broke out that ser Barristan had found Stannis and pledging his sword to the rightful and worthy King of the Iron Throne. Joffrey was furious.

“How could Stannis accepted that old man? How??” he was screaming when Osmund Kettleback shoved her inside the chamber. “He is old! He let my Father died! HOW COULD MY STUPID UNCLE LET HIM INTO HIS SERVICE?”

Cersei was sitting at the end of the bed, looking rather bored.

“He’s just an old man. Nothing much,” she said.

Behind Joffrey, his sworn-shield was standing with his scarred right hand at the hilt of his sword. The Hound did not spare her a look when she came. A man of few words, Sandor Clegane mostly curses or spat angrily to anyone dare crossing his path.

“Lady Sansa, Your Grace!” Osmund Kettleback announced. 

She curtsied to a sighing Queen Regent, and to Joffrey who didn’t pay her any attention. 

Sansa thought she saw pity in the Queen’s eyes as Cersei stood up to smoothen her dress. 

“I shall be going now,”

“I want to know how Stannis can accept that old man! Find out!”

Cersei tilted her head, annoyed by the harsh tone, but did not say a word. She hurried off to the door and shutting it behind her with a soft _click._ The moment his Mother was out of the chamber, Joffrey snatched his crossbow. He had never held the weapon when he was with her. Sansa felt a little daunted but kept her face calm.

He aimed the ornate crossbow to her.

“You never told me what you think of it,” he said, unamused.

“The bow, Your Grace?” she asked softly. 

“Margaery likes it. She wanted me to teach her how to use it. I’ve never practiced using a living target, though,”

Sansa fought the instinct to turn and runaway.

“You can always go to the Kingswood, my Prince. I believe there is plenty of game in there. Boar, most of it. King Robert’s favorite game,”

Joffrey sneered, “I hate it when you speak to me. Your face…” he strode to her and Sansa fought the desire to throw up the bile in her stomach. “...reminds me of your ugly wolf. The one who mauled me, that beast. How I wonder why my Father agreed to marry me to such plebeian origins as you,”

At his mocking of her family, she found courage in her anger. “I am Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of the Warden of The North—,” 

“Traitor’s daughter,” Joffrey scoffed.

“—and Hand of The King. The blood of the First Men runs in my vein, and I am as noble as you,”

“Your Father was a traitor, a disgrace to my Father’s reign!” Joffrey tried to grab her with his free hand but Sansa recoiled from him.

“Don’t touch me,” she unexpectedly hissed.

“I am your King, I can do whatever I want with you, more so when you’re married to me!”

“Does a true King have to keep saying that he _is_ King?”

“Say that one more time, I’ll make sure you will never speak again. Have you not learn your lesson? Is there a brain in your head? Should I tear that apart and take a look?” the crossbow in his hand swung dangerously, arrow readied inside the latch. Joffrey’s index finger right on the trigger.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,”

“You stupid bitch. If you dare giving me stupid daughters I will kill you both!”

She yelped as the crossbow fired. The arrow narrowly missed her head and stuck into the mount behind her. Joffrey put another arrow on the barrel, cocking it with skilled hands. He pulled the string back evenly and took aim.

“Please!” she begged, only to fall on deaf ears. The Hound still standing silently, his face growing red. Osmund Kettleback laugh and moved farther from her.

“Ser Osmund, give a lesson for my betrothed! Not the mouth, even when I want to crush all those teeth but I need her to be pretty.”

She closed her eyes and imagined she was somewhere else, away from here. The first blow hit her and even when she shut her eyes she still see stars as she was cast down to her knees, taken by the harshness. The bruises in her thighs throbbing like an open wound. She struggled to stay upright, kneeling on the stone floor, trembling with each blow. Not a sound escaped her mouth. She will not give Joffrey the satisfaction. 

Ser Osmund’s gauntlet hand struck her in the rib, sending her rolling on the floor. In her pain and humiliation she tried to remember what made those Kettlebacks earned their knighthood, but none come to her memory. 

It was a lie; the songs and the stories were all lies. 

The men who stripped her naked and hit her were all knights. 

The man who took the most joy of seeing her pain was a Prince, now a King… 

 _Lies, all lies,_ Sansa closed her eyes as another blow hit her lower parts of the body. She felt a stabbing pain in her calf. Even when she was laying on the floor curling like a baby, trying in vain to protect her head, it did not stop both men of hurting her.

“Yesterday I asked Grand-Maester Pycelle how long it takes to break someone’s neck,” Joffrey said, smirking under his golden crown. He was clearly enjoying every blow. “It didn’t take long for a rabbit, or Tommen’s kittens… so, I just wonder...”

Osmund’s fingers enveloped her neck, squeezing. 

She tried to speak but no sound came out. Her lungs feels like on fire and she started to claw at Osmund’s hands. She didn’t want to cry, but tears welled up in her eyes. Perhaps she will die before Robb does come…

 _They are all monsters,_ Sansa thought, looking at Joffrey. The sun shone through the iron bars and fell onto his golden head, to his crown. The ruby embedded in the crown glaring red. _Monsters do live in a castle, after all… they are King and knights._

“Wait,” Joffrey was breathing hard. “I will do it,”

She gulped the air greedily as Osmund’s fingers pried loose from her neck. It was not long before they were replaced by Joffrey’s, and the air cuts from her lungs again. 

 _Let me go,_ she wanted to say but instead of words she could only made incoherent gurgling sound. The squeeze stopped blood supply to her brain, the air stopped going to her lungs. She started to black out.

“Enough,” 

Sansa blinked, trying to drive away darkness that was growing in her eyes. Air slipped into her lungs one more time, sending her gulping and retching as if she need to spit out something. Her face was wet with tears.

“What did you say, dog?” Joffrey snatched the crossbow again.

“You will kill the girl,” said the Hound calmly. “your Mother won’t be happy if you kill her. I believe your Grandfather and the Imp would be, too.”

“I am King!”

“Aye, you’re,” said the Hound, without the slightest of fear. “before His Grace take her in front of men and the Gods, the girl is under protection of her family, who is wedging war to yours. And she is under protection of the Queen Regent, as her foster parent.”

Joffrey screeched angrily, stomping his feet. 

Sansa found herself shaking. 

“LEAVE!” 

Her eyes rested on the Hound; the burned, scarred part of his face was facing her, but he did not return her gaze. His eyes fixed on Joffrey.

The ugly, not-a-Ser had saved her once again.

-

 

“Sansa?”

“Hello, Tommen,” she smiled at the boy, who is the mirror half of his brother, minus the cruelty in his green eyes. He was tall enough for an eleven-year-old boy. The golden hair allowed to grow rather long just like Joffrey. Tommen still supported his baby fats that making him appear plump. “I’d curtsy to you, but my legs are not in their best shapes,” she cleared her throat, feeling a sharp, thick pain as she spoke. 

“Did he hurt you again?”

The innocence in his asking made her heart clenched. Tommen was afraid of Joffrey and never wanted to be in the same in room with his brother unless his Mother present.

“I slipped on the stairs and sprained my ankle,” the best thing she could do was not making the young Prince worried. 

A seemingly newborn kitten peeked out from Tommen’s robe. The fur was light grey, and it reminded her of Lady, her direwolf, its bones waiting for her in Winterfell. 

“Are you going to Tumbleton with me?” asked Tommen in hushed tone, looking to his left and right.

“Tumbleton? No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“I heard they are sending me to Tumbleton,” he looked upset. “Am I going to die?”

“What—why are you saying that?”

“They sent Myrcella to Dorne, but she never reached Dorne. Mother said your brother abducted her. That he might kill Myrcella should the war is lost to us,”

“It was a lie, Tommen. My brother would never do such thing,”

“Well, my brother would,” Tommen shuddered when he said it. “Joff said your brother is a traitor,”

Sansa gritted her teeth. “Traitors are not murderers,”

“What if I never reach Tumbleton, just like Myrcella never reached Dorne?”

She took Tommen’s hand in hers, squeezing it gently. The boy looked up to her, pleading with his eyes. He was scared. Everyone in this city were scared. If she peeked inside her heart, she knew she was afraid, too. Yet she clung stubbornly to the hope that Robb will come. 

“I believe they send you to Tumbleton for your own safety, Tommen,” she tried to calm the boy, even when her heart was burning with rage towards Joffrey. “There’s no way they let you go from behind these walls, if they weren’t sure you’d arrive safely. Not after they lost Myrcella,”

“I want to fight, too,” he pouted.

_Her brother Brandon used to hope to become a knight, too, fighting for Robb and the North. That was before he lost his legs._

“You will, when you’re taller to fit inside an armor,” 

“But I am almost as tall as Joff,” the childish side of Tommen gets the best hold of him. “Mother made him this gorgeous armor and she sent me away to Tumbleton! It is not fair! Do you think Mother consider me weak? Thus why she always favored Joffrey?”

“Of course not,” Sansa shook her head patiently, “you’re brave and kind-hearted. Someday you will be a gallant knight just like Arthur Dayne, or Aemon the Dragonknight... Bravery has many faces, you know? Like, still going to Tumbleton despite you have concerns of what may lay ahead,”

Tommen finally smiles. “I guess you’re right,”

“There you are!” a servant run towards them and took the young Prince by his arm. “Don’t go out of my sight again, Prince Tommen. This is a dangerous place, your Mother said so!”

Tommen sighed. “My mother said everything is dangerous. I guess I’ve to go now, Sansa. Thank you. I—I hope your brother is kind to my sister,” he added softly. “Joffrey and Mother said awful things about him, but… but I’ve met him in Winterfell. I don’t think he’s evil. He doesn’t look like one,”

 _Because he is not,_ Sansa said to herself as she watched Tommen went with the servant.

Long, she pondered Tommen’s revelation about Tumbleton. Perhaps they think to smuggle Tommen out of the city, which would be a bold move considering Stannis’ host is near. How would they do it? She understood enough, should Joffrey fell in battle to come, the Iron Throne’s claim would be fallen on Tommen’s young shoulders. 

_Will Stannis be merciful?_

_Will Robb?_

Two Golden Cloaks glanced at her and whispered to each other, laughing as she passed. Massive curtain walls surrounded the castle with stone parapets, the grim masonry was her prison. She slowly walked towards the end of the outer edge of the walls’ ramparts, just across the Great Hall, to the most secluded part where the heads of traitors are traditionally placed on iron spikes at the gatehouse. 

The heads were looking back at her, staring with their empty sockets, void of eyeballs. They did not scare her anymore. No one paid her any attention as she stood there silently, looking up to the severed, rotting heads… In her mind, one of those heads was Joffrey’s. His pouting mouth would be gaping towards the sky, a crow pecked at his eyes. When his flesh begins to rot and maggots and crows feast on him, what lies beneath is the real Joffrey.

She had begged for mercy, and his mercy was death for her Father. 

She wondered what kind of mercy Stannis and Robb would gave Joffrey, that is if they ever would?

The weather shifted just as Sansa retreated to her chamber. Cool breeze sipping through her heavy crimson velvet, poking at her aching bones. There was ringing in her ears, and her throat itch where Joffrey and Osmund strangled her. She coughed, painfully.

Perhaps she could rest for an hour or two before she relish her nightmare again, being in the Red Keep. And her scalp itched by the intricate hairdo, she longed to take off one or two pins.

Despite the pain she found herself humming along the empty hallway, something she had not do in a long time. The sound that came out of her throat sounded like not hers; it was thick and raspy, reminding her of the Hound’s. The sky was darkening even though it still daytime. She wondered when was the last time it was raining. 

Faintly, she heard men’s voices line up in the yard. Three servant boys crossing hastily carrying long chains. It will be used to lock Maegor’s Holdfast when fighting knocks on the Red Keep’s wall. A male servant scurrying off with a cask of wine. Aside from the increasing duties of the royal household, in addition to the stress caused by Stannis, life in the Red Keep just went on as usual.

 _Stannis and my brother Robb should not be merciful if they wanted to defend their thrones,_ she thought as she made the climb to her chamber. The serpentine steps in Maegor’s Holdfast can be strenuous to climb, especially with a limp.  _And just like King Robert erased every Targaryen alive when he took the Iron Throne, that should be what Stannis will have to do._

In the distance, a bell was pealing loudly from the middle of the city. It was only rung to announce royal birth, death, and… war. 

It echoed grimly, carried by the wind, a melody of warning and death.

Sansa did not stop even when her legs threatening to give up. 

 _Let them come,_ she prayed. 

_Let Robb come..._


	18. Chapter 18

**BRIENNE**

The comforting steel hugged her frame tightly as a squire helped her with the cobalt blue armor. Pauldron, breastplate, plackart and finally her cuisses were strapped to its righteous places. The longsword hanging from her belt _clank_ softly against the armor.

She was ready. 

A horn was blown and banners raised. 

At first light they marched to Sarsfield, the last holdfast between them and Casterly Rock.

The Young Wolf looked dashingly gallant in his armor; so much of a King with the morning light bouncing off his spiky iron crown. He had inspired many people; bringing vengeance and the dream of independence.

After she lost Renly to Lannister’s assassin (a shame she’d forever hold in her heart for failing Renly), Brienne agreed to follow Lady Catelyn and pledge her sword to Renly’s brother and the last Baratheon in the realm, Stannis. When he put her into Robb Stark’s force, at first she was a little annoyed. Especially when she found out Robb did not go with Stannis to King’s Landing.

Strategically speaking, she knew they better off dividing the troops with the Iron Throne claimant come first to the capital. If she follows her grudges, she is more than eager to wrap her fingers around Joffrey’s neck or slit the Imp’s throat the way Renly was murdered. Yet she keeps her silence, never voicing her feelings. 

In Renly, and now in Robb’s forces Brienne doesn’t talk much unless needed; the Lords and the knights don’t really talk to her, either. She knew they looked at her differently, a woman out of her place. Brienne had long been used to it; the looks and the sneers. A few Northerners understood the path she had chosen since they were accustomed to a harder lifestyle, like the Mormonts, which is currently led by a woman. Or the Umbers, who values strength and loyalty above all else. Sometimes she thought she’d fare better if she was born in the North. 

If she wasn’t training or attending Robb’s councils, Brienne chose to be alone in her pavilion, away from the sneering men. Not that she lamented her misfortune, but simply to curb herself from challenging those petty southron men, that would mostly resulted in humiliating them. Robb Stark doesn’t need more wounded men, does he?

The only person she spent time with if she wasn’t training or by King Robb’s side was, oddly, the Princess Myrcella.

Initially she was asked to help look after the Princess, something she did not like, but a command was a command nonetheless. They don’t share much common other than being born as women. In fact, the little princess made her feel a bit intimidated. 

Myrcella Baratheon (or _Lannister,_ she had to remind herself) is the very image she craved growing up; courteous, beautiful, and proficient in all feminine skills as a Lady should be. How she used to pray to the Seven to make her just like _that._  

Obviously, the Seven didn’t answer her prayers. 

Taller than any men, save for the Greatjon Umber, Brienne is muscular enough thanks to her training in wielding sword since childhood. Her straw-colored hair always cut short near the scalp. Her nose has been broken more than once, and in her full-bodied armor everyone mistaken her as a man. 

 _Brienne the Beauty,_ men called her.

 _The Maid of Tarth,_ friends and foe called her.

The only child the Gods let her Father keep, the freakish one not fit to be a son or daughter.

Brienne grew up and chose the only way she knew and thankfully fond of; being a knight, despite the Seven Kingdom never seen a female knight. Though she knows it is frown of, yet she never wavered. Her Father had been generous enough to let her train under their master-at-arms, even hiring more trainers from Braavos and Meereen. Three years after she wields a sword for the first time, no one dared to mock her openly.

When girls her age bled and shipped to wed, she donned her armor and fight for her Father. When girls her age bear heirs and children for their husband, she came to Renly’s aid when the latter called his bannermen. The Lord of Storm’s End, one of the three claimants of the Iron Throne in the War of The Five Kings, needed her. And she had come to him, fighting for a place in his Rainbow kingsguard.

She joined Renly out of her love for the jovial, high-spirited man, the only man who treated her with kind and respect when she was a mere child dreaming of a man’s affection. Renly saved her from humiliation when no boy wanted to talk to her. Brienne remembered fondly when he danced with her in her Father’s hall, a long time ago… and as he spun her around on that awful dress her Septa made her to wear, Renly made her felt like she was as beautiful as any girl in the realm. 

The second time Renly was in her arms was when she held his cold and lifeless body. 

She remained on the side of his deathbed, keeping vigil, even long after Lord Tyrell withdrew his troops and took Lady Margaery to King’s Landing. She held Renly’s cold hand when his army bleed and disappeared. She was lost, desperate, and angry when Lady Catelyn found what was left of Renly’s army in Bitterbridge.

When Robb told her to keep company with the Princess, Brienne had to refrained herself from lashing out at the command. She was not in his army to babysit a hostage, even when she is a princess. She had come with the promise of putting a true Baratheon on the Iron Throne, and to run her sword through whomever responsible of Renly’s murder. However, soon the resentment vanished as the princess took Brienne’s hand, holding it under her more delicate ones. There were tears in the girl’s eyes. 

_“Uncle Renly was always been kind to me. It feels just like yesterday he came to my room with plums and freshly harvested strawberries from the Reach. I’ve heard you were in his rainbow kingsguard, Lady Brienne. I am truly sorry for your loss. He was a kind man.”_

She was too taken aback, surprised to hear the sincere condolences, and at the mention of Renly’s name for the first time since Bitterbridge, that she could only muster a weak whine. 

 _“I failed him when he was murdered. I was not even with him.”_ It was her greatest regret. 

_I only held him when they found him lying on the ground, already gone to the Gods._

They both mourned for the fallen King, her and the Princess. 

The Young Wolf reminded her so much of Renly; kind, chivalrous, born to be King. No wonder she caught how the Princess looked at him. 

As they dine together, the Princess would ask about the battlefield, about Brienne’s training in weaponry, and of her home in Tarth. Begrudgingly she could not hate the Lannister girl, however she wanted to. It did not take long for them to talk like good friends, although the topic of Renly’s death made her still unable to regulate herself well enough. She did not tell Myrcella who was Renly’s murderer, only saying Renly was killed in the war. Of course, she was not entirely lying.

The wind was blowing hard that morning when they left to Sarsfield. 

The air was cold to breathe in, and she looked up to sniff the last of the summer’s scent. She was already on her horse, ready at Robb’s side along with Patrek Mallister, the heir of Seagard in the Riverlands, when the Young Wolf made a detour to the Princess’ pavilion.

Yes, Brienne had seen the way the Princess laid eyes on Robb, and how the Young Wolf looked at her. 

Brienne always has deep capacity for loyalty and adoration, and she had craved for love… though at thirty and five namedays she had been unlucky on that area. Not that she minded, though. Brienne only wanted to fight and die for Renly if she had to. Now that Renly has gone, she lives only to avenge him. But she realized she wanted to be seen the way Robb looked at Myrcella. How his gaze would adhere a few seconds longer than it should, as if he does not want to look away... 

She was not the only one who is aware of it, looking at their inaudible exchange, the way King Robb bent over his horse to slip something into the Princess’ hand. Ser Patrek had shifted uncomfortably atop his grey horse. Daryn Hornwood looked away, troubled. 

They marched through the green hills of Westerlands, stopped only a night to discuss their strategy one last time. Scouts had come back with news of a vacant looking castle. They had left with Grey Wind earlier, and along the route succeeded in taking out at least a dozen of Lannister’s scouts. 

“They are expecting us,” Lord Umber warned. “They know we’re marching to Casterly Rock. Sarsfield is the last holdfast between us and the Rock.”

“This could be a trap,” Lord Bolton said softly. “Perhaps we need to wait until ravens came back from the Vale.”

“No,” Robb argued, “we cannot wait any longer. Tywin Lannister could have sneaked to the capital. We must quickly reach Casterly Rock. The old lion has not shown his teeth, I wonder why, and we better find out quick.”

“We should use the Princess, bring her in front of Tywin’s castle and tell the old lion we’ll hang her if he doesn’t yield!”

“We will not use the princess for such low act!” Robb raised his voice. “Threats are threats, my lord! Which we must do if Tywin decided to challenge us back!”

“We need to regroup with Stannis,” Robin Flint, heir of Widow’s Watch located at the end of a peninsula between the Shivering Sea and the Bite, spoke up. “If I may ask, Your Grace, what are your plans with our captive?”

“Which one?” Robb asked back, his eyes were fixed on the map in front of him. They did not hold many captives.

Brienne saw how some Lords exchanged look between them. 

“The one you keep in the camp,” said Robin Flint.

“She keeps my sister alive.”

Something that was left unsaid hung thickly in the air. 

The tent door parted to reveal a man behind it, his breath hitched from riding.

“Yes?” Blackfish asked.

“We found them. Five thousand, at least,” the last scout to arrive said.

“Banners?”

“Gold coins in checkered purple, green arrows, purple stars, brindled boar, and the golden lion, my lord.”

“That is all?”

“That is all, my lord, aye.”

“Thank you,” Robb chimed in. After the departure of the scout, Robb looked thoughtfully at the map. “I thought there’d be more men in front of us,” he muttered.

“Where are the rest of Tywin’s men? He must be up to something.” one of his lieutenants said.

“Aye! Tywin Lannister is not the type of person to let us take his gold, nor suffer defeat after defeat. I saw the ruins when I was in Castamere; left as it is after Tywin extinguished the Reynes and the Tarbecks, root and branch, when he was still half a boy! The singers even made a song of it. Gods! I hate that song,”

“I’d say we better wait, Your Grace,” Lord Bolton offered again.

“The Vale could send their answer weeks from now, given if they want to reply at all. What if they not?” Robb said stubbornly, “and Stannis is about to fall upon King’s Landing! He might have rid us of Joffrey and the Imp. He depends on us to keep Tywin and his army busy in the West,”

The Lord of Dreadfort looked displeased.

“We’ll still take Sarsfield. Uncle Brynden, you and I will lead the front with Lady Brienne and Lord Umber. We’ll take archers and footmen. Ser Donnel, you’ll lead the cavalry.”

Ser Donnel Swann, the Stonehelm’s heir, a handsome man of twenty with sandy brown hair, stood straighter at the mention of his name. 

“An honor I gladly accept, Your Grace,” he bowed.

“Get some rest, my lords, and my lady. We depart before the first light.”

She stayed awake long after the camping ground grew silent. 

She was not afraid of what awaits on the morrow. She was even prepared for it. There is no deeper desire than to cut down every Lannister men she met, even better if Robb immediately finishes off whatever makes him went to the Westerlands in the first place so they can regroup with Stannis in King’s Landing. There, awaits more golden lions for her to avenge Renly. 

Before the dusty purple and orange hues peeked in the horizon, Brienne was ready on her horse. Daryn Hornwood, Patrek Mallister, Smalljon Umber, and Owen Norrey who acted as Robb’s battleguards companions, trotted with her. Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—joined them as they break camp. Their group rode about ten kilometers into Sarsfield, Robb surrounded by his Kingsguards. His direwolf, Grey Wind, led in the front of the line. The giant direwolf boosted the men’s morale in battle; a menacing beast now as tall as a grown man. She had seen how the direwolf easily ripped men and tore horses in battles. It must have tasted human flesh, but somehow civil enough to them.

Grey Wind growled. Its back curled full of threat against the enemy that their eyes had not seen. 

They have reached Sarsfield, at the far end she can see the top of its highest tower, so close yet so far.

“What do you see, Grey Wind?” Robb whispered.

His direwolf continued to snarl, more urgent the passing second, baring its teeth.

Robb signaling for a halt.

Not long after, a horn was heard from across the field. The thumping of thousands of foot soldiers could be heard, brought the wind. Their commanders, sitting on horseback, appeared in the distance, sigils flapping in the wind; Lannisters, Sarsfields, Paynes, Peckeldons, Crakehalls… just like the scout reported.

“They ask for a parley,” the Blackfish pointing at a single horse rider riding out to them, holding a staff of white flag. 

“What do you think they’d say?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve my suspicions. I better go on your behalf, Your Grace.”

Robb thought for a moment. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll take Lady Brienne with me.”

She did not expect Robb to invite her, but more surprised that he decided to handle the parley himself. As expected, Robb’s statement provoked protest and opposition from his lieutenants who offered to replace him in the parley.

“No, I’ve decided I’ll go.” Robb was stern with his decision.

“Then take more companions and that direwolf of yours with you,” Blackfish suggested, to which Robb relented.

They urged their horses to the middle of the field to meet the Lannisters. A big man with broad shoulders and thick waist greeted them, fully clasped in crimson red armor from his head to toe. His short blond hair and green eyes were the first trait Brienne recognized. A roaring lion carved with gold embedded on his chest, giving away his station. He was accompanied by four Lords and two knights.

All of them looking agitated the moment Robb’s group approaching with Grey Wind in tow. There was a bit of fanfare as the horses smelled the direwolf, they neighed in terror, standing and kicking on their hind legs. A man fell off his horse.

“Kevan Lannister,” the Blackfish acknowledged the man curtly.

“Blackfish,” he chimed back before slightly nodded to Robb. “And… The King in the North himself,”

Robb grounds his jaw. “My lord,” he greeted. “We don’t have all day.”

“Indeed we don’t,” Kevan Lannister nodded. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Grey Wind who encircled them menacingly. “The Queen Regent and the Hand have asked you to leave our land and return our daughter that you took. I see you’ve done neither, despite our good faith in returning your father’s bones and his valyrian sword. And where is my nephew?”

“Give me back my sisters, the North’s independence from the iron throne and the remains of northerners you killed in King’s Landing, then we’ll talk.” Robb shot back.

“Your sister is still betrothed to Joffrey. You certainly understand it is not easy to break a legal betrothal, don’t you?”

“I spat on their betrothal,” said Robb, “we consider Joffrey broke it when he killed my Father.”

“Please don’t make it harder for us. Either way, you and Stannis are no match against our forces. It is only about time you’ll lose. While you’re not with Stannis, do think carefully. This is our last offer. Return the princess and my nephew. Leave our land, go back to your home and never talk about independence again. The crown will forget this… rebellion… ever happened.”

“If you are so sure that you’ll defeat us, why haven’t Tywin shown his teeth after we destroyed his army at the Green Fork?”

“Listen, _boy,_ we offered you a chance of peace and to spare your men’s lives—,” 

“We will not bow to tyrants again!” Robb snapped. “Not after they killed two of the last Warden of the North! Keep your peace! Keep your useless parleys! Did you not see the Lannister’s dead I littered in your land? We’re done here.”

Without even waiting for his lieutenants, Robb turned the reins and rode away. Grey Wind followed him. Brienne saw how Kevan Lannister’s face turns purple with anger. 

“Proud and arrogant, a deathly mixture for a King,” Kevan hummed, chewing the inside of his cheek in displeasure.

“Can’t really blame him, can you?” Blackfish told him dryly, “Two Wardens of the North were indeed killed in King’s Landing without proper trial.”

“We had hoped to reach peace today, Blackfish. Advise the wolf pup and his men to return North and Riverlands after pledging their fealty to the Iron Throne. Tell the Stormlands to kneel before their true Baratheon.”

“And then... what? After we’ve knelt and pledge our fealty, so that little King on the Iron Throne could cut our heads, the way he did to Eddard Stark on the steps of Baelor? The Stormlanders are already behind the true Baratheon.”

“We’ve Dorne in our back. They didn’t take kindly the fact that the pup held their prince’s betrothed a hostage. We have the Vale, too, as a matter of fact. The wolf pup will regret his decision if he proceed with his plan,”

Brienne glanced to Blackfish. He didn’t even flinch at the threat. 

“Aye, or perhaps you’ll be.”

 

They lined up along the field, the green grass spread before them, as far as the eye could see. Robb was talking with Blackfish and Lord Umber, she could hear his angry murmur. They will ride to battle, she knew it. Their enemy was on the opposite of the field, the cavalry in the vanguard. If they ask her, she wholeheartedly agrees not to trust the Lannisters and their parleys. 

Her horse neighing softly as she saw Robb turns and start racing his black destrier along the front row of his men. The wolf fur sewn on his surcoat waved in the wind, the iron spikes on his crown reflects the sunlight. 

 _“North!”_ he shouted. He has the kind of voice that someone would listen all day, vibrating deep with power and contagious confidence. “North! Stormlands! Riverlands!” 

His men stomped their boots on the hard ground, those wielding swords banging the flat side of their blades against the shields.

“We’ve seen their banners approaching, their horns calling. Soon they’ll come upon us. Shall we allow them to violate your freedom? Shall we let them terrorize our families, our homeland? Will you bravely raise your swords and fight them? Oh, aye, we might die, and die we shall! But for what we lay our lives, is what makes us different from those tyrants in front of us! I’m honed to live and fight with you! For independence and the rightful heir of the Iron Throne!”

 _“The King in the North!”_ his men shouted. _“The King in the North! The King in the North!”_

 _“Stannis, the rightful heir of the Iron Throne!”_ the Stormlands shouted. _“Stannis!”_

Brienne saw the enemy sent out their cavalry to crush them, spears and swords drawn. The golden lions and its followers fluttered with threats. 

Robb turned to Blackfish. “Sound the warning call. Arrows, on my mark,” 

“Archers!” Brynden Tully roared.

A squire blew the signal, making the men parted to make way for their archers. They lined up more than a hundred meter in three lines. Arrows were pulled from quivers, slipped on the nock.

She could feel the roar of dust from their horses’ hooves as they charged to them.

 _“Hold!”_ Robb shouted.

They are getting closer, the riders screaming their battle cries. _For Casterly Rock,_ she heard them. _For Sarsfield! Usurpers! Traitors!_

The cavalry would be on them in a few seconds. 

Brienne felt the man beside her inhaled sharply, her own palms sweating under the gauntlets. She gripped her sword tighter. It was terrifying to watch the form, charging forwards with such ferocity. No matter how many times she saw the horsemen approaching, she always feels the bowels loosening in sick anticipation. Every instinct told her to run, but the soldier in her, the stronger one, bracing for impact. 

“My King—,” Greatjon Umber warned, he unsheathed the biggest and ugliest longsword Brienne ever seen. His son, Smalljon, did the same. “They’re almost upon us!” 

_“Hold!”_

As if in slow motion she saw how the horses before them neighed dangerously, the riders brandishing their swords ready to cut them down. She made a quick calculation in her mind, holding her sword with both hands. The ground beneath her trembling as hundred horses and its riders charged straight at them.

Their battlefield was a vast savannah surrounded by hills, the way a Westerland’s terrain should be. The woods were behind their backs. Under certain circumstances, Robb had instructed them to retreat into the woods and lure the enemy into traps waiting in the woods.

_“ARCHERS, NOW!”_

Behind her, _swoosh_ -ing sound of thousand arrows was released from their strings. A split second later the sky above their heads was covered in shadows of so many arrows. They rained over the riders and one by one fell to the ground and didn’t move again. 

“Reload!” Blackfish shouted. 

More arrows rained over the remaining riders, but didn’t entirely finish them off. Some of the riders covered their heads with shields.

“Send the cavalry,” said Robb.

“Riders!” Ser Donnel bellowed. 

The sound of thousands swords drawn from its sheaths gave Brienne a familiar sensation.

 _For Renly,_ Brienne thought as her horse raced to meet the enemy. She was ready to kill. She needs to kill. 

Their cavalry advanced towards the enemy, crushing bones and steel. 

When finally the enemy’s sword meets the tip of her sword, she no longer think of anything else. She sat on her warhorse, taking down as many enemies as possible. Adrenaline sent her heart racing deliciously. Their iron helmets protected the heads, but Brienne eyeing the gap between the helmet and their necks. That is the place Brienne draws her sword into. Blood hit her face from one of the enemy’s neck as she cut him down. It blinded her for a second, for she did not wear a helmet. From where she stood Brienne heard screams of the dying and the sound of Lords shouting orders. 

Banners waved in the wind. Kevan Lannister and his lieutenants sat quietly on their horses, overlooking the battlefield from atop of a hill. An instinct came to her unbidden, that something felt not right. Brienne looked around the battlefield, seeing bodies spangled on the ground. 

Blackfish came to her side. Both maintained their positions while counting some of those who were still standing. 

“They’re coming again!”

“Hold the line!” Blackfish shouted. “Hold the line!”

The second wave of cavalry hit them again. Their horn was blown to signaled incoming arrows, which were released from behind them. Brienne raised her left hand, the hand that wielding her shield. 

Some of the enemy managed to penetrate their defense. One of the riders, a big knight with a scar extending from his left eyebrow to his chin, waved his sword at Brienne and the Blackfish.

 _“BLACKFISH!”_ his voice boomed through the battlefield. 

“You knew him?” Brienned asked.

“Oh, aye,” Blackfish said, “Ser Lyle Crakehall, second son of old Lord Roland Crakehall. I put that ugly scar on his face years ago.”

“Come to me, old man, and have a taste of my sword!”

Blackfish sighed. “If you will excuse me, Lady Brienne?”

“You’re a woman?” ser Lyle spat. “I don’t understand this King in The North; he refused to return my Liege’s Granddaughter, and there’s a woman fighting in his army?”

“Enough. Let our steel speak.”

“Aye, let’s stop talking. Besides, before the day is over we will get the Princess back.” he let out a semi grunting laugh, reminding Brienne of a pig. There was a big gap between Ser Lyle Crakehall’s front teeth as he grinned. 

That chilling instinct came to her again, this time it was harder, more demanding, and made her a little scared. 

_Something is terribly wrong..._

Robb and his companions were fighting at the far end of the line. Blackfish started his duel with Ser Lyle, their warhorses circling each other as its riders ringing their steel. She started to made her way to Robb, cutting down more enemies blocking her way.  

In the distance, Lannister’s infantry began charging towards them.

Swords, strokes of arrows and spears clamoring around her… Her body moved as if she was dancing. The difference was, she danced with the Stranger. A dance of life and death. And the Lannisters are so wealthy that they are able to arm their men with the best iron, equipped with armors from head to toe.

One by one she saw her comrades fell, until she was among the last one standing.

From the corner of her eyes she spotted the Young wolf charging boldly atop his horse, slashing left and right. 

Soon, she saw the opponent’s line began to thin out.

A blasting horn was heard, this time coming from the opposite of the hill. Their enemies were moving backwards.

“They broke!” a man shouted happily, “My Lord, they broke! They retreated!”

It’s true… their enemies were pulling back. 

 _Why, why? Think!_ she racked her mind for any possibilities she had not seen. 

She could feel it in the air, the chilling instinct of a soldier. The enemy resorted to feigning a flight and appeared to flee. She saw how their troops began to advance in pursuit of the enemy. 

“No! Don’t break ranks!” she shouted. 

A few hundred meters from the battlefield, Kevan Lannister turned and rode away.

A man blocked her horse, the sword held high to send the killing blow. Brienne ducked in time, her swordhand instinctively rose to thrust her sword into the man’s unprotected head. Not far from her, Owen Norrey cut down a man in red armor. 

“Do you think what I think?” he called to her.

“They shouldn’t pull back as easily as this,” she said, panting. 

“Hold your ground!”

“Don’t break ranks!”

Some men who heard them immediately stopped chasing the enemy and stayed put in guard position.

_They had expected at least twenty thousand awaiting them in Sarsfield, as it is the last holdfast before they reach Casterly Rock. Yet they only faced… what, the scout said five thousand? Not even close._

_Where are the rest of the men?_

Brienne take a look around the battlefield; corpses lay on the ground, red and gold, purple and white, their armors covered in blood. 

_Have they gone to King’s Landing already, abandoning the Westerlands?_

_Or…_

She trotted along their perimeter taking in the whole scene in front of her, of how the opponents break ranks. 

_Or the enemy used Robb’s tactic in defeating Jaime Lannister’s forces in the Whispering Woods._

Brienne had heard about the ploy and its success. A brilliant one, however grim.

The realization made her gasped, pulling the reins of her horse to sudden halt. She didn’t know whether her hunch was right or not, but Robb had to know. In the hubbub around her, she had lost sight of Robb. Her sword was covered in blood and she was sweating under her armor.

“Your Grace!” she shouted frantically but it drown under the frenzied sound of the battlefield, of groaning dying men. She urged her horse to a gallop, trampling every footmen standing in her way to find Robb. 

Brienne found him way up in the front. “Your Grace, the camp!”

Robb Stark caught her eyes. 

 _“The camp!”_ she shouted again, “This is a diversion! They will attack from the rear, from the camp!”

She saw how the blood drained from his face. “We need every rider to go to the camp!” 

She prayed she was not wrong. If she was, she will cause Robb a massive loss today.

“Ser Donnel, withdraw your riders,” Robb trusted her instinct. 

“Your Grace?” Ser Donnel’s face was aghast, his helmet long gone. Blood was dripping from the cut on his forehead.

“Bring every rider to the camp, that’s where Tywin’s army is,” Brienne said impatiently.

Ser Donnel turned to his squire, who blew the horn to signal retreat for the riders. Brienne saw their calvary began to leave the battlefield and retreating into the woods. 

“With me!” Robb yelled. “Lord Umber, Lord Bolton, you have the vanguard!”

Robb and his companions fell in beside her. 

“Your Grace, it is a day ride to the camp!” 

“Then we must hurry,”

Another horn to signal retreat. “The camp! BACK TO THE CAMP!”

She was halfway when she heard Lord Bolton ordered the men to prepare their spears. She looked back, only to saw the enemy had sent mounted men to see Robb’s going into the woods.

Robb’s black destrier was not far from Brienne’s, his young face pale as a mare’s milk. For the first time, she sensed his fear and his doubt. Robb’s companions ride between them. They left behind the battlefield but Brienne could still hear the cries.

Some of the horsemen chase them into the woods. Grey Wind hurdled at them, claws and teeth, killing horses and its riders. 

All of a sudden, an arrow blasted near her head, nearly hitting her. From memory she recalled Sarsfield was renowned of their mounted archers. 

_And isn’t their sigil an arrow blasting over a green field?_

In several councils, Brienne had heard complaints from some of Robb’s lieutenants. They argued how Robb always positioned himself in the thickest part of the battle. One lucky arrow, or one stab right in his head or his heart, and they will lose their first King in three hundred years after Torrhen Stark, a risk they dare not take.

Even the Princess had her own complaint about The Young Wolf. 

_“Why can’t he use full plate armor, if he wanted to be in the front lines?”_

Brienne knew why; Robb just simply never trained with full plate armor like his Southron counterparts. The Northerners, for starter, never use full steel armor due to cold weather. They seemed to prefer boiled leathers and chain mails, paired with gorgets to protect their neck, gauntlets to cover the arms and hands, and pauldrons. Sometimes they’d wear helmets, but not Robb. Indeed, Brienne saw how the enemy aiming for Robb who put himself at the forefront, even though he was surrounded by his companions and direwolf. One more King is taken down, this war might end sooner.

A sword swung down, aiming for Robb’s unprotected head, only on the last second his sword-hand rising to block the sharpened edge.

“Protect the King!” 

“For the North!”

Two archers on horseback coming at her. Brienne braced for impact but a swift shadow of grey snatched one of the riders before he could aim. His scream distracted the other, and Brienne’s sword separated his head from the body. 

“It’s the wolf!” one of the enemy shouted.

Their horses were not familiar with the beast, and Grey Wind’s scent sent the horses into frenzy. The archers couldn’t aim above an anxious mount, and they were easily taken down either by swords or Grey Wind.

Robb had instructed their smiths to make caltrops; a made up weapon of sharp nails arranged in such manner that one of them always points upward from a stable base. They had scattered enough of it on the forest floor, carving signs on the tree trunk for their own safe passage if they have to retreat into the woods. The caltrops are meant to slow down and injure the enemy’s horses.

Brienne saw the marked tree and swiftly directed her horse to run on the paths that were marked safe.

Behind her, the screams of men as their horses stepped on the caltrops rang out, accompanied by a _thud_ as their horses’ fell to the ground. The number of enemies was not as many as they think, but the fact Robb had to divide their men in the middle of the battle made it easy for the enemy to break down their defensive line.

 _Their camp, which holds Robb’s supply line and hostage, or Sarsfield?_ Not an easy choice for every Commander to choose in a split second, and Robb did not make it look easy either.

Their battle was a chaos; she could not imagine how Lord Umber and Lord Bolton defended the front line with only footmen. Some of their horsemen had already ride to the camp, but more had fallen by arrows. If they were continually being chased and attacked by the enemy, they will not reach the campsite in time. In fact, most likely the enemy was already there.

Robb realized this too.

_“Grey Wind, find her!”_

The direwolf tore a limb from its latest victim and disappeared into the woods. 

She knew the beast was as fast as its namesake, but she never really saw how quick it could outrun their horses. Her eyes met Robb’s when Brienne tried to aid him. 

“Take the riders and go!” Robb shouted.

Daryn Hornwood took a blow and Brienne could hear his agonizing scream as she turned her horse around. 

 _“RIDERS!”_ she shouted. “With me!”

She raced her horse as fast as possible, hoping desperately she wasn’t too late. 

The direwolf has long gone ahead of her. Brienne looked back and to her relief, no one followed her. 

If her instincts were right and the enemy truly attacked their camp, then they let Sarsfield be taken by Robb in an attempt to devastate his forces by taking his precious hostage and destroying his supply. If they succeeded, Robb would be trapped between enemies. He will be in a weakened position.

Brienne and the rest of the cavalry urged their horses as fast as possible, slamming the hooves onto the hard ground, crackling on falling dry leaves. Not once they dare to slow down, out of fear of what awaited in the camp. Robb brought most of his men to Sarsfield, leaving only one hundred to garrison the camp. It won’t be enough; who knows how many men Tywin sent to crush Robb’s camp?

Brienne knew Robb has set sentries, but a hundred men won’t be sufficient to fight against a battalion of mounted men. The wind slapped on her face. She was afraid. They had hastily divided their own forces, with her bringing only the riders since it would be faster for mounted men to reach the camp.

_Is this it?_

_Are they going to lose this war?_

Brienne felt the heat flushing through her body, even when the wind was cold. The last time she turned to see her comrades, Robb was surrounded by enemies. Her gauntlet hands trembled slightly on the reins, but she gritted her teeth to shake every bit of fear. Anger fueled her. 

She spurred her destrier faster, mercilessly.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**MYRCELLA**

Something was in the air. An odd, unexplainable dread that something would happen. She sat enjoying the warm sunshine in front of her pavilion, and when she looked around the camp she couldn’t really shake the heavy feelings away. 

It was a fine afternoon. The weather was not too cold and not too hot. To be short, she thought it was a perfect day. She could sat only wearing her cotton gown, her hair left loose to the waist. Now when she looked at her reflection she almost did not recognize the girl that stared back to her. She looked so… _ordinary,_ that she was sure if she was passed her mother on the street Cersei would have thought she was merely a peasant. But the plain-looking girl that stares back at her from the mirror was smiling. She was stripped of her jewels, of her velvet and damasks, her hands began to feel dry and soil often entered into her shoes… the shoes were slippery too, unlike the one she had back then in King’s Landing. And yet she was smiling. None of it matters anymore.

Some men with spears were walking in front of her pavilion; they stopped for a moment to talk to Walton. In the end, Pia had won their arguments. Walton didn’t ask Robb to march with his army, but rather stayed with them in the camp.

Robb has gone for three days. In his absence, as usual, she spotted more men patrolling the perimeter. At night there would be more guards to stand in front of her pavilion. Most of them were Stark men, for Robb did not trust people outside the men he has known himself since childhood.

The camp was quieter every time Robb went. Most of the campers were healers, squires waiting for their knights to return, and servants brought by the lords. Though she enjoyed the quietness, but not the lack of Robb. 

She kept his letter, and the buttercup flower, underneath her pillow. At night she took out the letter and read it over and over. Her finger tracing the black ink seeping in the parchment... If she held it close to her face, she thought she could smell him on it. 

She dreamt of him last night. She had hoped to see his face, but he was standing with his back to her. The wolf-fur sewn on his surcoat waved under the moonlight. They were in that prairie again.

 _Don’t go,_ she remembered saying to him. _Come back to me._

Pia sat next to her, repairing Walton’s sleeve, and the woman looked up when Pia realized Myrcella had stop sewing.

“Milady?” Pia whispered. “It’s alright. He will come back,”

“Who?” Myrcella turned to her friend, confused.

“King Robb,” Pia answered, smiling, “Isn’t he the one you’re thinking about?”

“Oh!” Myrcella picking at her needle and the cloth at her lap again, embarrassed to meet Pia’s eyes.

“He always comes back,” Pia assured her.

“I am not thinking about him!” Myrcella hushed her friend. “Why would I?” Gods, she hoped Pia did not recognize how her cheeks instantly flushed the moment Robb’s name brought up.

“It’s going to rain,” Walton said, looking up to the blue, cloudless sky. 

“How do you know?” asked Pia, curious. 

“Can’t you smell it?”

Both girls shook their heads.

“There...” Walton insisted, sniffing the air. “...the smell of approaching downpour,”

“I don’t smell anything other than your sweat,” Pia protested. 

Myrcella laughed, followed by Pia who just realized her own joke. Walton rolled his eyes and put down the whetstone he used to hone the sword in his lap. 

“Fine” he grumbled, “Stretch your arm like this. Go on, try,” he encouraged them to follow his example. “Can you feel it now? The drop in air pressure. Can you feel how heavy it is? Now look up and listen. Bet you won’t find any birds flying above your pretty heads.”

“Well… yes…” Pia was unsure. “Usually there’s a lot of singing around the woods!”

“A drop in the air pressure makes birds difficult to fly. Feel the way the wind blows. And look, spiders come down from their webs before the rain, every time,”

“But the weather is so nice!”

“Trust me, it will rain tonight.” 

“How did you know all those?” Myrcella was intrigued.

“I grew up outdoor, girl. Slept under the sky when it was warm and dry enough, or in my Father’s field after a good harvest… Then when my parents died, my uncle who served as Winterfell’s master-at-arms took me in. I was ten. I apprenticed as a gamekeeper before trained in arms. There’s a lot you can learn when you live mostly on your own in the open.”

“You never told me,” said Pia, her eyes teary. “It must be hard,”

“Nah,” Walton shrugged. “I’ve got good years, too. My uncle Rodrik was kind, and so was Lord Stark.”

An idea came to Myrcella’s mind. “So you can make a fire?”

Walton looked at her like she grew another head. “Every northerner can make a fire if they want to survive,”

“Can you teach me, please?”

Walton rolled his eyes, opened his mouth but Pia was faster. “Of course he will! Won’t you, Walton?” Pia narrowed her eyes at him.

At Pia’s counter, Walton closed his mouth and nodded grimly. “The princess wants to learn how to make fire, huh? Are you tired of giving orders to your servants, girl?”

“I live in the open too, now,” Myrcella reminded him. “I suppose it’ll come handy,”

“What other skill you’d want to learn other than making fire? Hunting?”

“Yes, I’d like that, too, please!”

Walton let out a laugh, but Pia smacked him on the arm. 

“Aye, aye, I’ll teach her, stop glowering at me. This is your lucky day, girl,” Walton finally said, standing up to gather shredded bark and mosses. “About how to hunt, I’m not sure. Better ask the King since you’ll need to learn with a bow or snares. Can't guarantee that hand of yours remain smooth, though,” he laughed disparagingly.

Walton taught her about small materials she will need to build a good fire; dry grasses, barks, twigs, or fallen leaves ignite easily. Using a dagger he showed her how to shredded the materials as fine as possible before arranging the twigs and tinder in the shape of a cone. He paused here and there to judge Myrcella’s own firepit, unexpectedly being more patient than he ever was. 

“Now the important part is how to started the fire,”

Myrcella was eager with anticipation, remembering the last time she tried to light one.

“You’ll need a piece of iron and flint. You can find flints everywhere, and men in the open always carry blades, so there you go,” Walton explained, producing his dagger again. 

He took her to the edge of her pavilion where there were many rocks and showed her how to look for a flint. Identifying it was not as hard as she thought once Walton told her what to look. 

Myrcella picked up a small rounded rock, dark grey in color, and Walton nodded his satisfaction. With skillful hands he used the back of his knife to strike sparks by striking it to the flint. In no time, the embers inside the cone nest he built started to catch sparks from the iron. 

“Now, try,”

Looking at her own fire pit—whose form messier than Walton's—she was unsure.

“Have a little faith, girl.” Walton rasped.

Using Walton’s dagger she mimicked what Walton just did with the flint. At first she was stiff and awkward, but as she slowly recognizing the rhythm, a spark began to appear. She squealed excitedly, growing more confident. It took her longer than Walton to produce a steady spark that was enough to ignite the tinder. But once the tinder lights, it spread to the kindling. Walton showed her how to blow softly on the ember, to make sure the flames spread evenly to the kindling and wood. Once they finished, a good little fire was blazing from the pit she made, although not as neat and as big as Walton’s fire.

“Well done, girl,”

“You did it, milady!” 

They say a person needs three things to be happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for. It was strange but begins to feel real to her… of how she was away from everything she knew, yet there were these moments of undeniable joy. The way Pia flung her arms around her, forgetting their stations but the uncalculating friendship, or of the way Walton grinned at her the kind of smile he reserved only for Pia. Only this time she could feel someone ever proud and happy of her.

And for a moment she forgets that weird, heavy feeling bugging her.

-

 

“I never like it when they call him The Young Wolf,”

Pia glancing up from her plate and raised an eyebrow. “But it is a flattering title, isn’t it, milady?”

“Feels like a bad omen,” said Myrcella, playing with her boiled potatoes. Tonight they sup on potatoes and what remains of a chop, seasoned with salt. It was considered a hearty meal in the middle of the woods. “Like he will always be young… never to grow old,” she shuddered at the thought.

Pia put down her fork. “You didn’t eat again,”

“I’m sorry,” Myrcella shook her head. 

“Something is troubling you,”

Myrcella bit her lip. Why she even voicing her thoughts, she thought to herself as she attacked her potatoes with the fork. It rolled from her plate and fell to the ground. Pia hurriedly got up from her seat and picked up the potato.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“You’ve been jittery all day,” said Pia, concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“It is different tonight,” she managed to say, trying to find the right words. “Robb—I mean, King Robb—has won many battles,”

“Isn’t he something?” Pia smiled.

 _He is,_ Myrcella thought with a weird swelling pride that she knew she should not feel.

She opened her mouth again to say something when she heard screams and the sound of frantic mules from the other side of the camp. Pia ran to the overlapping canvas door and parted it open. Black smoke rose in the distance, so thick even in the night it glows above a blazing flame. If Myrcella remembered correctly it comes from the direction where the logistic tents are.

“Fire!” Pia gasped.

“Stay inside the tent,” Walton came to them, sword in hand. 

Shoutings from outside the tent became louder, closer to their pavilion. 

The flames take every attention but Walton stood his ground in front of her tent with three other guards, swords in hand. Cows and mules screamed as flames touched their bodies, and Myrcella could hear panic engulfing the camp. She began to be able to see clearly through the canvas wall, thanks to the growing flames.

Thick smoke started slipping in through the canvas. 

Coughing, Pia parted the canvas door and Myrcella saw flames danced in the night sky. It was a rather beautiful view, if not the screaming and the terror it caused.

“There are three hot spots,” Walton said nervously.

Myrcella saw what he meant. Fire ablazed from the far end of the camp where the supplies’ tents were. Then from the right side of her pavilion, a second flame burning the makeshift stables where they kept the cows, mules, and horses. A third flame erupted from the tent where injured men were being treated. Myrcella was afraid to imagine what happened to the healers and their patients… could they get out of the tent in time?

“We must go,” he said urgently, stepping into the tent.

“Can’t they put out the fire?” asked Pia.

“I don’t think it’s just a fire,” Walton snatched Robb’s surcoat from a chair and threw it at Myrcella. “Put that on. We’re leaving,”

Something in his tone made Myrcella obeyed the man without much questioning. 

Pia turned to Myrcella. “Do you still have the knife?” 

“What?” she asked, incredulous of Pia knowing. 

“Do you??” she pressed.

“Y—yes,”

Pia snatched a knife from the table, the one they used to cut their meat. She slipped the knife behind her garter belt underneath her skirt.

“Use the knife if they’re close enough,” she reminded Myrcella, who started to shake.

“Who are they, Pia?”

“I don’t know, but it is definitely not our King. Most likely your brother’s…”

“I will not let them hurt you,”

Pia smiles at her. “Don’t worry about me,”

Walton peeked outside the tent, communicating inaudibly with his other three comrades.

“Let’s go!”

The six of them ran into the night, leaving the camping ground. Walton directed them towards the vernal pool, looking back through his shoulders every time, out of fear they were being followed. 

Her footsteps thudded on the hard ground, clouds began to cover the moonlight and she had difficulty to see clearly. Pia snatched her hand, guiding her. They came to the pool, the surface as clear and as still as she remembered, but they did not stop. They kept on running through the dark pine trees. 

“We’re going to the sentries,” she heard Walton told Pia. “I hope it’s not what I think it is,”

He began to slow down his running pace, until he gestured for Pia and Myrcella to halt. A thin rope stretched over the ground, so thin and blended perfectly with the tall grass. Unsuspecting visitor who did not know the rope was there would step on it, alarming the sentries.

Walton whistle softly.

No answer.

“Fuck!” one of the guard stumbled something on the ground.

“Walton?” Pia asked, fear in her voice. “What happened?”

Myrcella stood on tiptoes to look over Walton’s shoulders and almost screamed to see two men on the ground, their necks split open. A direwolf embossed on the sentries’ armors, marking them as northmen. 

“They’re here,” Walton hissed. “We’ve been breached,”

“What should we do?”

Walton put a finger on his lips.

Thunder rumbles above their heads. 

Her four guards pressed closed to her and Pia, their swords pointing to the darkness of the night.

 

\--

 

They ran in the dark woods, hand in hand, she felt her shoes come loose somewhere but she did not slowing down. Neither did Pia. 

In the dark they broke through bushes and tripped over a thicket, the heavy air began to make her short of breath and her corset pricked at her ribs.

 _Where do we have to run to?_ she wanted to ask Pia.

_What is happening?_

_Don’t slow down,_ Walton had warned. _Run._

The men who came at them were too many. Soon her guards fell, leaving only Walton standing. That was when he told them to run.

_Run and don’t look back._

The next time Myrcella tripped over a root, she fell and tore her gown. Pia knelt before her, helping her up when a figure came from behind a tree, smacking her in the head.

“Pia!” Her friend lay on the ground, her eyes closed. “You killed her!”

“She’s not dead,” the figure spoke. “I’ve been looking for you, little princess. Your guards took you so fast. Oh, you smell nice in this horseshit woods,” the figure made a move towards her. 

She took a step back. For a second the clouds made way to the moon, the silvery light fell on him.

To her surprise, she knew his face. 

He was one of the four men sent as messengers from King’s Landing. He had been silent back then in Robb’s tent, keeping his head down, but she remembered him perfectly. The man was ugly, like a living dead. His veins were showing in the pale skin of his face. The thin hair damps to his scalp, and he wore a tattered, ragged cloak. When he grinned, it was sinister.

“We came to take you back to King’s Landing,” The man reached out to her but Myrcella refused to be touched by him.

“Is this my mother’s doing?” She directed her hand towards the burning camp. She could still hear the sound of people and mules screaming, surrounded by fire that split the stillness of the night. 

“Your mother, the Imp, or your Grandfather, who cares? My job is taking you to them, and that is what I will do!”

He started pulling her towards the woods.

Something in his accent made her realized he was not from her House. He was not even from the Westerlands, even Westeros.

“Who are you?” she demanded, afraid.

“Is that important?” he scoffed. 

She fought his ruthless pull, “Let me go!”

“We don’t have time for this!” 

“NO!” she tried to fight him again when the man tried to grab her waist. He was skinny but stronger than her, easily out powered her even before she could take out her knife. Without much difficulties the man lifted her on his shoulder, carrying her deeper into the woods.

“Don’t make me hurt you, little princess,” he panted angrily, trying to get hold of her as she kicked and screamed, hitting his back.

Her wild, frantic movements soon made the man dropped her again. Once her feet touched the ground, her balled fist automatically drifted to the man’s face, hitting him right on his nose. She screamed along with the man. She, out of shock and the way her knuckles throbbed, and the man because of pain. He shouted angrily. 

Myrcella took her chance to run, but the man lurched at her, his eyes watered.

Rain began to fall just as Walton had predicted. 

 _“Bitch!”_ he howled, grabbing her ankle and Myrcella crashed to the hard ground. “Stupid cunt! I am taking you to the Queen!”

She screamed but her voice was lost in the roaring thunder. Her kicks sent the man bellowed furiously, both soaked by the pouring rain. Myrcella lying down on the muddy ground, hands trailing in search of rock to defend herself with. She managed to hit him once before he caught her hand with the rock.

“Stop,” he warned dangerously. “In these woods you’re just a pretty cunt,” 

Another thunder rumbled, the lightning splitting the dark sky. 

The man’s face above her was violent and full of anger. Blood flowed from his nose that she punched. He reminded her of Joffrey, and she had never been afraid in her whole life.

“Why are you doing this?” she cried, trying to free herself from his grasp. It was in vain. 

He was too strong, too ruthless, and too violent for her to fight. Muddy water seeped under her clothes. It was not just a rain, but a torrential downpour. 

“I’m to take you to King’s Landing,” he hissed, his face so close to hers that she was able to smell his breath. His grip on both of her hands tightening. “But not with your maidenhead, I think. Who would know? There’s no one here anyway. I could blame it on that Stark boy,”

Her fingers clawed at the mud, as if digging her escape. The man was too strong. She tried to kick him again but he sat on her stomach, straddling her, laughing. The rain poured down on them and she was blinded by tears and rainwater. Another lighting drowns her scream.

The man let her hands go to unlaced his trousers.

Myrcella tried to roll over to reach the knife behind her corset but the man slapped her across the cheek with one hand.

“Don’t even think about it,” he mocked. “Keep that pretty mouth shut and I will let you keep your tongue.”

“Robb!” she screamed, didn’t even realize what she was saying.

“No one will hear you, not in these woods, in this rain,”

He groaned when Myrcella’s fingers went to his face, clawing. He slapped her again when she tried to rise from the ground. The blow was so hard that Myrcella’s head pushed back and hit a rock on the ground. Instantly her vision darkened by the impact, making her body went weak.

The downpour came at her, entering her nose, her mouth, choking her. She felt the man’s hands on her thighs, forcing her legs apart to give him access.

“I’ve never had a princess before,” 

Thunder rumbles again. A flash of lightning illuminated the dark sky, and Myrcella opened her eyes to look at the man above her. She felt something poking between her legs, making her felt sick. 

"Let's find out if you're still a maiden,"

Her head was still dizzy from the previous collision, but her hands went to the man’s face, aiming for his eyes.

The man strucked her again.

 _“If they lay a hand on you, I’ll break their every bone before I have their heads.”_ Robb’s voice was ringing in her ears.

“Robb will kill you.” 

He was too busy tearing her dress and securing her hands at the same time to hear her. But even in the heavy rain and thunder above, she recognized the familiar sensation. A killer was near. Thunders had muffled the sound of its steps, but she knew the direwolf didn’t need any silencer to stalk its prey.

His screams sent shrill to her, more shocking than when Grey Wind snatched him right on the shoulder, throwing him off her body like a ragged doll. Blood was spurting from his severed arm, making the flow of water on the ground red. The man’s screams as he was mauled by the direwolf made her blood run cold, it tore the night competing with the thunderstorm. She blinked to adjust her eyes as the rain obscured her sight. She thought she heard horses neighing, and someone was calling to her. Perhaps she was dreaming again... 

Finally, the man stopped screaming. 

She gasped when a hand touch her, sending her to panic.

“It’s me!” came Pia’s voice, and Myrcella stopped fighting.

Pia helped her sat, and she saw Walton kneeling by the man’s unmoving body, the tip of his dagger sank in the man’s neck to end his misery. Another lighting and she saw how she was surrounded by red. Her Grandfather’s color is red. The soil beneath her was red. The color of the blood… She retched and cried in Pia’s arms.

Grey Wind was snarling into the dark sky, in the heavy rain its fur bristle. Its paws were scratching the wet ground. The legs were rigid.

“The wolf is angry,” Walton observed, keeping his eyes low, crouching near the ground submissively so he won’t provoke the agitated direwolf. “Crawl to me and don’t look him in the eye,” 

She felt Pia’s shaking arms went around her waist, gently urging her to Walton. All of a sudden Grey Wind was on their side, its bloodied snout inches from their faces. When it let out a snarl, Myrcella could feel Pia shaking violently that she thought Pia might collapsed any moment. 

She too, was trembling by the downpour, and by fear and hatred for the man who now lay died on the ground. But she shifted in front of Pia, shielding her, so now she and Grey Wind came face to face. She averted her gaze to show submissiveness.

The direwolf won’t hurt her, she knew it.

Despite that, she also understands the beast was of its own mind, and her hand shaking as she reached out to Grey Wind. She could feel the direwolf’s restlessness and was afraid that it might snap.

“Girl—,” Walton warned.

“It’s alright,” she whispered. To herself, to Grey Wind, or to Walton, she did not know. “It’s alright,” she repeated, crying and shaking. “We’re alright,”

It seemed like forever until her fingers touched Grey Wind’s wet fur. At her touch, the direwolf stopped growling. She ventured its snout gently, still avoiding eye-contact as Walton advised, her hands stroked the direwolf’s tensed neck. 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The muscles under her touch calmed down. Grey Wind sniffed her, and she dared to finally look into its yellow-golden eyes. It was serene, intelligently staring back at her.

Walton crawled to them, pulling Pia away from the direwolf’s range.

The rain began to thin out. The direwolf circled her, eyes watching the dark woods. Pia was still trembling and she cried when Walton told her he is going to the camp to take a look. The rain had extinguished the fire and the screaming had long stopped.

“No, no, don’t leave us,” she begged, clutching Walton’s arm.

“You’ll be safe with the wolf. I won’t be long, I need to check if there’s any survivor. Watch the girl and remain in the shadows,” he hushed her with a kiss before running towards the camp. 

There was a foul smell that lingers in the air.

She sat on the wet ground with Pia, both trembling by the cold, hugging each other for warmth. They were too afraid to light a fire. She was sure she heard the sound of horses in the distance, but friends of foe she did not know. Hours must have passed and Walton has not come back, to Pia’s dismay.

Grey Wind continued snarling into the dark, circling them protectively. The sound of horses getting louder, coming closer to them and Pia pulled Myrcella to her feet. Grey Wind became agitated all over again, and its growled increasingly ferocious.

“We’ve to go,” she said, putting on a brave face.

“But Walton—,”

Pia looked as if she wanted to cry again, “He said to look after you. Let’s go. I—I don’t know who’s coming… enemy or not,” She had pulled the knife and held it with shaking hand. 

Myrcella pulled her own knife from behind the corset.

Following her friend, they started to made way in the woods when the sound of hooves reached them. Grey Wind snapped back to stand between the approaching sound and them, baring its teeth. 

Riders began to appear from between pine trees. In the dark they looked menacing, swords and _arakhs_ rose high in their hands. Myrcella tried to look in the dim light to find any sigils to gave away to whom they fight for, but she did not find any. 

“Urswyck!” the man sitting on a zorse roared. “Urswyck!”

Grey Wind snarled at them.

“The wolf is here!”

There were eight of them, Myrcella count, bloodied and battered. The ninth man came to the leader on his zorse, whispering something. The leader was a tall and gaunt man with a goatee from a pointed chin. He wore a helmet with the horns of a goat, a chain made of strange coins rattled around his neck as he moved. When he spoke, he made a slur sound like his mouth was full of saliva and the tongue swollen.

“So the wolf killed Urswyck,” said the man, looking rather unconcerned. He looked at Grey Wind a strange awe. “The tales were right, after all. That wolf is monstrous. Now which one of you is the princess?”

Grey Wind growled, making the mounts retreated and its riders shouting.

“Who are you?” Myrcella found her voice.

“My name is Vargo Hoat,” the helmet worn man told her, spitting as he spoke with the weird accent. He inclined his head upon seeing her, eyes locked to her messy golden hair. “Tywin Lannister sent us. That golden hair. You must be the princess, eh?” His eyes scanned them, accessing Grey Wind.

To her horror she saw two of the men pointing arrows at Grey Wind, the rest raising their _arakhs_ and their swords.

“Kill the wolf,”

“NOOO!” 

Grey Wind leaped before the archers released their arrows, jumping onto one of the horsemen and drags him into the dark. Its victim’s screams echoed among the trees before it was silence once again. The horses and the zorse began to move wildly, thomping on hind legs as if trying to throw their riders.

“Where’s the wolf? Where’s the fucking wolf??” The man named Vargo Hoat exclaimed angrily, spitting on every word. The zorse squeals noisily.

A second man screamed when Grey Wind leaped, catching him on the waist and dragged him into the dark. Arrows were shot to where Grey Wind hauled the man.

Pia pulled her to run just as Vargo Hoat kicked the zorse towards them. The rest of his men followed suit. Myrcella raised her hand that was holding the knife, it was too small to fight a man atop a mount with his _arakh_ swinging dangerously, but she was determined not to be carried out so easily.

Grey Wind took out the third man and trampling over the fourth.

“Idiots! Kill the fucking wolf!”

“It’s too fast!” Their arrows kept missing the target, hitting the ground or the trees instead. 

Both girls screamed when the zorse stomping wildly just inches from their standing ground, Pia managed to drove her knife into the zorse’ thick skin, slicing the flesh. Vargo made an angry shout as he fell from his mount, swinging the _arakh_ in his hand.

“You’re such a tease!” he bellowed, “Why is it so hard to come with us? We won’t hurt you,”

Myrcella wrapped her fingers around the knife, the blade facing out to Vargo. He let a guttural laugh, almost inhuman, didn’t show the slightest fear at the two girls in front of him holding knives with trembling hands. The _arakh_ shone under the moonlight, Myrcella had never seen a blade so sharp almost like valyrian steel. He’d easily slice them apart.

There was a commotion coming from the scorched camp. 

Vargo raised the _arakh_ and it swung down to Pia, cutting the air as it came with such ferocity. 

Something hard cast them down; Myrcella felt herself fell onto Pia as they crashed onto the ground. For a second she thought she was dead, searching for her friend to make sure Pia was unhurt.

The _arakh_ was blocked in the middle of its swing by Walton’s sword. Vargo let out a grunt, swinging the curved weapon to Walton. 

The bushes trembled; the rest of the raindrops fell from dark branches. The cold wind rustled between the trees as the sound of horses approaching again.

 _We are going to die,_ Myrcella thought. _There were so many of them._

The _arakh_ got to Walton’s arm, blood spurting, and Pia screamed.

“Pia, take the girl!” he shouted, blocking more blows. “Go!”

 _Go where?_ Myrcella wanted to scream.

But they ran again, without knowing where their feet taking them. 

_We will never outrun the horses._

A horn was blown. When she looked back, dark shadows wrestling in where she left Walton and Grey Wind. Her heart was pounding hard, her clothes dirty and torn; her feet were bleeding from running barefoot.

More hooves shook the ground, announcing incoming riders. Myrcella stopped to look and her heart skipped a beat to see something flutter in the dark sky. _A direwolf banner._

A man came at them on foot, swinging his _arakh._ By pure instinct Pia and Myrcella flung their bodies in the opposite direction, avoiding the coming blade. In the darkness the man could not distinguish which girl he should take, and he was stunned for a moment, confused. The girls saw an opportunity, and together they drove their knives into the man’s unprotected neck. Something warm washed over her hand, a salt metallic smell used to gag her, but now Myrcella no longer cared.

“Pia!” Walton’s voice broke through the hustle in the woods. 

Myrcella tried to locate Walton but failed. More men came at them. The blood made her grip slippery on the knife but Myrcella held it tighter, ready to defend herself and Pia. Before any impact, Pia threw herself to Myrcella, pulling her huddled on the ground, as swords and _arakhs_ rang above their heads. In the dark Myrcella could not distinguish which one is enemy.

When it was all finished, she opened her eyes to see bodies lying on the ground.

A horse trotted towards them. The rider went down from the mount before reaching out to Myrcella, Grey Wind stalked silently behind him. Myrcella tried to stand on shaky legs, the knife fell from her trembling fingers as she narrowed her eyes to see who he was. 

“Robb?” 

Clouds parted and the moonlight lit where they stood.

It was Lady Brienne.

Her face was dirty and pale, soaked in blood. Hers or enemies’ blood, Myrcella was afraid to find out. 

“Thank God,” Lady Brienne’s broad shoulders shook. “Thank God. I thought we’re late,”

She ran to Lady Brienne, to Grey Wind, throwing her arms to take them into one embrace. 

“Is it over?” she sobbed to Lady Brienne’s cobalt blue armor. _Please tell me it is over._

“I suppose it is,”

The smell was awful; blood and charred flesh and ashes. The damped earth sent a musky smell that did not completely cover the stench. More horses emerges from behind the trees, but horror lifted from her chest the moment she saw the sigils. Robb’s bannermen.

Walton ran to them, yanking her from Brienne’s embrace. Fear radiated from his eyes.

“I’m fine. I’m not dead,” she told him weakly, knowing his worst fear. “But Walton, you’re hurt,”

He only let out a breath of relief and did not answer. In fact, he did not seem to hear her anymore after she told him she was fine. Walton turned to Pia, and Myrcella never saw anyone ever embraced someone so hard, so fierce, yet so undemanding. Pia squeezed him back, burying her face on his chest.

”Are you alright?” Brienne asked. “We cannot go back to the camp, not until we know how much damage it sustained.”

“Why are you here, Lady Brienne?” she suddenly remembered. Robb never come back from his campaign this soon. It had only been three days. “You returned so quick from the campaign,” 

_Who are they? Where is Robb?_

_Did he win?_

_Is he safe?_

So many questions running in her head. A grunting sound from behind Brienne made Myrcella turned her attention in time to see Grey Wind. The direwolf whimpered, throwing its head towards the gloom sky and howled. 

“Grey Wind?”

The direwolf keep on howling.

Her heart was torn at the sound, she never heard something so sad. It was as if the beast was in pain.

Not far from Sarsfield, an arrow hit Robb in the chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *FUN (or not so fun?) FACT*  
> \- did you already know that Walton is my OC? :)  
> \- my muse for Walton is Paddy Considine  
> \- my muse for Pia is Halliday Grainger  
> \- i listened to The Winds of Winter by Ramin Djawadi excessively for this chapter, now my head throbbed whenever I heard the song played over @_@  
> \--------------------------  
> *Credits*  
> "A person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for.” was a quote by Tom Bodett.  
> 


	20. Chapter 20

**BRIENNE**

Brienne strode along the scorched ground, watching as men gathered charred bodies to put inside mass burial they had dug. It was a shallow pit of thirty meters wide, by mid-day all the bodies were buried. If most of your friends are burned to death, there wasn't much left but ash and black body parts. 

Intact corpses were the bodies of those who were tasked with guarding and not burnt in tents.

Although she was angry to see the destruction of their camp and to witness her comrades’ bodies piled in the mass grave, Brienne had no time to nurture the feelings. They lost most of the men that were left to guard the camp. Dozen of tents used for recovery of the injured were burned to the ground, with no survivors. All the livestock were slain.

Robb lost his supply lines.

“What’s the count?”

“Sixty riders came with us. I think the rest caught up on the way or protected the King. Twelve fallen,”

“Did you find their bodies?”

“Eleven of them, aye. The twelfth must be ser Patrek of Seagard. I saw him riding with us and got thrown from his horse, but he’s not among survivors.”

Brienne remembered the heir of Seagard; they never spoke much even when they often met in the sparring yard and had ridden to battles with the Young Wolf. She felt sorry for his father, faintly recalled a conversation when he spoke fondly of the old Lord of Seagard, now bedridden with sickness to the bowel that prevented him to march.

“Look for his body as you prepare the perimeter for us,” Brienne said, “His armor was purple and silver, with the family sigil on his chest. An eagle,”

“Yes, m’lady,” 

Brienne turned her attention to another man besides her.

“Anyone captured alive?”

“Just one,” said the man, taking her away from the mass grave.

It was Vargo Hoat. 

He was seated under a tree, guarded by several men. One of his legs was missing, bitten by the direwolf. Brienne herself threw him off his mount, breaking his arm, when they collided in the woods. When he saw Brienne approaching, the man grinned. His face still looked fierce even though he could no longer take up arms. 

“I was hoping to see pretty face before I die,” he sneered cruelly, “That little princess would do,”

Brienne brandished his weapon of choice; the crescent moon-shaped _arakh_ shone under the blaring sun, its reflection blinding her eyes.

“This is a Dothraki weapon,” said Brienne, watching how Vargo trembled in pain. They had no salt to stop the bleeding, and they did not want to waste a good iron to cauterize his wound, so the severed leg was tied tightly by a horse’s reins.

“Aye,” he growled, the face full of scorn. 

Using the blade, Brienne touched the necklace on Vargo's neck. “You’re a sellsword,” 

“Aye,” he said again, flinching by the pain.

“Who sent you?”

“What do I get from answering your question?”

“A quick, merciful death.”

He spit. “How about a fuck? But not with you, ugly bitch,”

“The only _fuck_ you’ll get is from this,” Clifford Swann unsheathed his sword, but Brienne stopped him. 

“You’re going to die, anyway,” she pointed to his leg. Blood had seeped onto the grass beneath him and he was as pale as a corpse himself. “All of your friends were dead, we piled their bodies not far from here for the crows. Soon you’ll be joining them. Do something good for yourself; who sent you? What is your mission?”

He started to laugh. “I used to chopped my prisoners’ hands and feet,” the black goatee dangling from his chin shook as he laugh and spat at the same time, slobbering as he spoke. “They all… screamed, aye, screamed…” His spit hit Brienne’s face when he laughed again, delirious of his wounds. “And they begged for mercy! No, no, no… Vargo never gave mercy, oh aye! But their flesh never goes waste. We sell them, sometimes we just eat them!”

“How many monsters does Tywin Lannister have?” Clifford Swann couldn’t contain his disgust.

“Tywin, eh?” Vargo’s eyes found the young man’s face. “He promised us half of the gold in Casterly Rock, and even prettiest maidens from all corners of the seven kingdoms if we destroyed Robb Stark’s camp and take the princess back,”

Vargo began to shook and gasping for air as his body gave into shock, blood seeps out from the open wound. He lost too much blood.

“Where is Tywin Lannister?” Brienne grabbed Vargo’s shoulder to keep him conscious. She slid the man to the ground, noticing how his pupils dilated into vacant air. 

“Tywin—,” Vargo cough and vomited, “He’s not here. He gone…” 

“He deserve to die in agony,” a man said without sympathy, and Brienne knew no one will shed a tear upon Vargo Hoat’s death.

“Ugly bitch. You lose. You—,” Vargo’s curse was cut short as his body began convulsing. Brienne dropped her hands and watched silently until the body finally lay motionless.

“Where’s the princess?”

“There,” Clifford gestured to the vernal pond. “The King’s direwolf won’t leave her side,”

When she found the princess, she sat on one of the rocks by the pool, Robb’s direwolf at the heel of her feet. Grey Wind’s golden eyes was watching Brienne as she approach. The girl’s golden locks hanging down from her surcoat, or rather, the Young Wolf’s surcoat, which she know did not make Robb’s bannermen happy to be given to the princess. 

Brienne nodded at Walton and Pia, all of them sported the same half-opened eyes; fatigue and fear, it held an edge of anticipation for a new day in a new place. They had not slept all night as adrenaline was still high in their system.

“Lady Brienne!” Myrcella greeted, her voice was a shrill in the woods that now smells of corpse and ashes. She had washed her face from dirt and blood, but her hair a disheveled mess above a ruined gown and blistered feet. Myrcella Baratheon did not look like a princess in the mud and rag, but perhaps it is a good thing for them now. “Is Robb—is King Robb alright?”

She knew Myrcella had waited all night to asked her. 

“I don’t know, my lady,” she answered truthfully. “I left him in Sarsfield when we realized there was something odd in the battlefield. I’ve sent some riders to check on Sarsfield before we depart,” Brienne said, somewhat doubting why she informed this to the princess. Brienne turned to Walton and continued, “We lost a lot of people last night,”

Walton grunted.

Brienne looked back at the princess again, “I’m afraid Ser Patrek was among the fallen. I know you’re quite close to him, my lady. If so, I offered you my condolences.”

Tears welled up in the princess’ eyes. “He is a good man. Is there any chance that he might be alright? Perhaps… perhaps left behind to help King Robb?” The child-like hopefulness in her voice was heartbreaking. 

She shook her head. “One of my men saw him got thrown off from his horse. We found the horse dead, but have not found ser Patrek’s body,”

“My lady, when will we go to Sarsfield?” Walton asked.

“When the riders come back safely. There was some Tywin’s sellswords who managed to escape. I’m afraid they’re still around here with the rest of his army,”

“Sellsword? My Grandfather sent sellswords to… _retrieve me?”_

“Yes,” Brienne studied the little girl's face before her, wondering. “Why didn’t you go with your Grandfather's men?” she had to asked, curious.

“I… I… don’t know…”

There were many opportunities while she was in the woods, without any guards, that she could have run away. Or just simply went with the men Tywin sent to retrieve her. The girl did neither. 

Apparently, Tywin did not want to waste his army and chose to send sellswords to bring his granddaughter, the crowned princess, back. Sellswords cannot be trusted; their loyalty lies only to gold and perhaps the girl did the right thing not to go with them. _A maid must be mistrustful in this world, or she will not be maid for long_ , her Septa harshly said. She looked hard upon the girl who did not return her gaze. Brienne did not ask further. 

She also remembered what Vargo had said, that Tywin Lannister left. 

 _But where?_ she mused. 

Wherever Tywin went, his army must be with him.

There were not many that could be saved from the camp; if it didn’t rain that night, there would be more damage. The enemy made use of the shock effect from their unpreparedness for maximum results. Myrcella said she recognized one of the attackers as the man who came to delivered Ned Stark’s bones and house Stark’s ancestral valyrian sword. Fortunately, the morning they marched to Sarsfield, Robb had sent those two valuable things to Riverrun for safekeeping.

 _All of these had been carefully planned by the enemy, and what else?_ Brienne pondered, watching Robb’s direwolf stood up and swirled nervously around the princess. 

Grey Wind was not calm as usual. It would look west towards Sarsfield, whined, before sitting down by the Princess’ side, only to stood up again and circling the girl nervously. Last night the direwolf howled for hours into darkness and only stopped when dawn approached. 

 _Something must have happened,_ Brienne thought, sharing Grey Wind’s distress. _Whatever it was, they’d find out sooner or later._

 

When night fell, they finished collecting what could be scavenged from the scorched camp. Galbart Glover gathered the highborns to discuss their next steps. They sat around the fire pit, trying to keep warm as their armor rubbed shoulder to shoulder. Brienne knew all of them were tired and uncomfortable. 

“The princess should be taken to Riverrun,” Benfred Tallhart proposed, the light from the fire pit illuminated his broad, freckled face. “It is not possible to bring such hostage to Sarsfield.”

“No, I’m afraid they’ll come to get her again,” Brienne argued, “Better not splitting this time. Not many have succeeded in coming back here from Sarsfield.”

“But lord Bolton was right; we shouldn’t have marched. We should’ve waited for the Vale to answer,” Benfred continued, “Though they won’t answer us! They are loyal to the Iron Throne. Lady Arryn is no longer in power, now that Warden in the East is a Lannister puppet! We made a mistake by marching to Sarsfield,”

“Did you just insult your King’s command?” Galbart shouted. “If you’re my son, I’ll smack that nonsense outta you!”

“My lords!” Brienne raised her voice.

Benfred scowled but say nothing.

This felt like their first lost in the war and it was hard to swallow. Robb’s bannermen were thinking about their King and of their comrades. Brienne did not blame them; she was anxious to return to Sarsfield as their number here were too few. 

“What are you suggesting, lady Brienne?” Clifford asked.

She winced at the courtesy title. “We wait until noon on the morrow. Riders should have come back by then. Riverrun, if—,” she cleared her throat, “If Sarsfield was not taken by the King,” _If they lost._

For once, none of the men spoke up against her nor sneer. 

 

\---

 

It was another long night before the golden sun shines on the horizon. Brienne couldn’t enjoy the slightest warmth of it. Riders did come back at noon the next day, just as Brienne predicted. Sarsfield was indeed taken by Robb, the riders saw direwolf and stag flying from the castle towers. 

However, the riders added grimly, they were surrounded by Lannister’s bannermen. If they come, they’d have to defeat at least two thousand troops that besieging the castle.

“No way Tywin lead only two thousand,” Galbart commented. “The old Lion chooses to face Stannis in the capital, leaving the Westerlands for us.”

“We’ve only forty and eight mounted men. Fifty and five foot-men, and a dozen unarmed people, including the Princess. We cannot attack them from the rear, they’ll finish us off before our friends can get out of the castle.”

“We’re fucked?” Hendry Brecken spoke up for the first time. The nephew of Lord Jonos Brecken of Stone Hedge in the Riverlands was one of Robb’s highborn battle companions. 

“Not the kind of fuck I’d prefer, but yes, we’re fucked!” Galbart fumed. “I should’ve stayed with my King! Died protecting him!”

“You obeyed your King’s order to return to the camp,” Brienne said, “For that, we could save what must be saved,”

“That Lannister abomination?” he scoffed, unappreciative.

Brienne raised an eyebrow, “A precious hostage to exchange with our friends and his younger siblings.” 

“A hostage, only fools still thought so!” Galbart fumed, kicking the dirt with his boots. He seemed tempted to say something, but did not proceed further.

They were like abandoned kittens torn of its mother’s teats, confused about what to do and where to go. Even though it seemed impossible, but they must move forward. They could not possibly return to Riverrun now, not when scouts found out Robb's and Stannis' standards were flying in Sarsfield. But them, against two thousand men-at-arms? Mayhaps she’d die before she could reach King’s Landing, before she could touch Joffrey and the Imp. If so, Brienne hopes her Father would find a new wife that can give him the heir he’d be proud of; a warrior son, or a lady daughter.

She vowed to protect Renly, her sweet smiling King, and she failed.

She went to Stannis and vowed to put the last Baratheon on the Iron Throne, and that too she was afraid she might failed...

They saddled their mounts in silence. Galbart Glover and Clifford Swann lead them away from the scorched camp, Brienne chose to ride at the back of the column, taking Myrcella to ride on her horse. They could not move fast enough because not everyone have mounts. They must stay vigilant, for fear the enemy might come at them any moment. Soon darkness came, and the night heightened Brienne's wariness.  

After a debate they finally agreed to make the biggest fire they could on the edge of the woods, attracting the enemy’s attention before leading an attack from the flank. The flame will definitely attract their comrades’ attention as well. If Gods were on their side, perhaps they have a chance to win, who knows? Brienne could only hope. It was a slightly dangerous plan, but it's still a plan that keeps hope alive in their hearts.

Halfway to Sarsfield she felt Myrcella’s hand patting her shoulder. The direwolf had been stalking close to their side, but now Grey Wind was nowhere to be seen.

At the same time, Galbart brought them to halt. 

They all stayed quiet, even the horses did not make a sound. Brienne could feel the princess’ quickened breath behind her. Their eyes were watching the dark woods, relied only on the moon above their heads. None of them carry a torch.

Hendry Brecken’s eyes met her in the dark, and he made a gesture that something—or someone—was closing in.

Brienne’s hand descended to the hilt of her sword, ready to defend the Princess and herself from any incoming attack.

Then a howl split the night.

They had been with Grey Wind for a time that they could recognize the howl.

They gasped at the sound of horses whining in the distance. It was far, but the silent woods delivered the suspicious whine quick enough to their ears. Brienne and Hendry drew their swords. In the dark they waited, forming close formation, with mounted men stood guard outside the line.

The sound of panicked horses was getting louder, giving away of another party in the woods. Those were strangers' horses, as theirs were familiar to Grey Wind’s scent that they stood silently with their riders. 

Another howl.

 _But the direwolf never howls when it sees enemy,_ Brienne remembered thinking. _It growls, and attack._

“Lady Brienne,” came the princess’ soft voice from behind her. “Does it seem like Grey Wind is calling out to something?”

“Aye. It is assembling,” Walton agreed, looking surprised himself. 

“What are you talking about?” If she didn’t see how serious they were, Brienne would think both of them have gone crazy.

The woods fell into silence once again; no rustling of wind among the leaves, no frantic sound of foreign horses in the distance, no sound whatsoever. It made Brienne grew even nervous. She preferred noise— _any noise_ —at least it could tell her from where the disaster would come from. The silence was not good. 

Galbart sent five footmen to go check in the direction where the sound of foreign horses was heard the last time… The men had not gone an hour when Grey Wind leaped from behind a tree, shocking two squires and a servant, making them fell to the ground, yelping. 

“M’lord!” one of the men Galbart sent out came behind Grey Wind, “You wouldn’t believe who come!”

Bushes parted, dry leaves crackled under approaching hooves. From the sound of it, Brienne know it was not the sound of attack, but rather a slow, calculating steps of riders approaching closer to their group.

At first Brienne was ready to attack when she saw the first banner in the vanguard. They were not sellswords, but she still did not know whether they were friend or foe.

Standing before them were mounted men tripled the size of their host, as more shadows moving between the dark trees. All of them mounted, wearing chainmail and helmets and armors, more banners were coming closer. Brienne glanced at the direwolf, expecting it to show aggressiveness, but Grey Wind was calm as its yellow eyes watching their new guest with interest. 

“Greetings, my lords,” a man spoke, though quite young Brienne saw his head was already balding. “The wolf made our horses nervous as we were approaching, but the beast led us to you. We’ve come in peace,”

 _“Peace?”_ Galbart growled suspiciously. “Which king you serve, my lord?”

Narrowing her eyes to look better in the dark, Brienne saw a blazon of black iron studs on bronze that bordered with some rune on the man’s breastplate. As an answer the balding man reached out to take something from his hip. Sword or dagger, Brienne was ready.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**THE SPIDER’S LITTLE BIRD**

Nights were darker when the battle happened. 

Crows covered the sky, perched on trees, polluted the ground. It came to feast on the corpses scattered about; the foul rotting smell lingered on skin no matter how hard she scrubbed, and she thought she started to smell like a dead person.

A strayed crow cawing by the kitchen’s window and out of habit she shooed it away.

The cook hates birds and cats wandering near the kitchen, stealing food. He’d beat her if he saw any animals roaming close. She was scared of him. He was not a nice man. He used to beat them, starved them, hurting them every chance he got. The cook wouldn’t let her eat if she was not giving him those kisses that she hated. She went to bed hungry, or sore and bleeding. 

Even when she did give him kisses, sometimes she’d wake in the middle of the night to find the Cook on top of her, crushing her with his weight. _You’ve been misbehaved,_ he said, before proceeding to punish her. 

She hates him.

But the Spider was kind; she often thought of him fondly. 

He gave her sweets, once even let her taste a peach. She never tasted a peach. It was nice and juicy. The pockets under his robe hold a lot of food, she wondered if that’s the reason he smelled so nice? 

Every time she met him, the Spider would greet her with outstretched hands. There were times when he wasn’t wearing his colorful damasks, but ragged clothes like a beggar in Flea Bottom. _Bread, or sweets?_ he asked her in his soft, almost feminine-like voice. She always picked sweets; it soothed her loneliness and kept unwanted emotions at bay.

_I need you to do something for me._

_When you’re done, I will arrange for someone to pick you up, and you will never starve again._

_I will take care of you,_ the Spider had promised.

She found herself in the castle, away from the slum of Flea Bottom, from its stench and sticky stew pots. The spider told her to wait when the order to empty the castle was given by Lord Eldrick. She had been in this castle for a long time it seemed, and it had never been this quiet safe for the crows.

Her barefoot feet hung from the chair she was sitting on, obediently waiting, listening to the endless sound of metal clattering from outside the castle. 

The battle was still ongoing. 

The crow came again, cawing eagerly looking for something to snatch. She was not alone in the kitchen. With her were her friends, huddled by the fireplace that was about to go out. They’ve been waiting for days. Food supply has depleted. Lord Eldrick left the castle a fortnight ago and since then no one had come out nor came in.

She snuggled with her friends in the dark kitchen when the battle broke.

The sound became unbearable on the second day, when finally she crept out from the kitchen and went to the watcher’s tower just above the gate. Once she climbed the stone wall and perched herself inside one of the barbican walls, she dared to take a peek at the battleground below.

The night did not provide much lighting for her, but she had stayed in the dark for so long that her eyes accustomed to darkness. She saw an army approaching, more many than the Lannister’s men that she saw just a few days past. Banners waved in the dark sky. They wore chainmails and boiled leathers. When the clouds shifted to make way for the moonlight, she could see they were soaked in dirt and blood from top to bottom. 

She tried to find her Lord’s banner but none among the sigils that were approaching. 

The first wave of the victors started to make way to the castle, exhausted dying men scaling the walls. Makeshift ladders were put along the outer walls and soon the invaders made their climb. She ducked in time before any of them saw her. A loud commotion was heard among the invaders, about the lack of resistance from inside the castle. 

Indeed, no archers, no men-at-arms. She was told they’d come and that they shall make a claim of the holdfast. Young Lord Eldrick could not do anything but yield to the order.

She ran back to the kitchen where her friends were, to let them know. Perhaps they would like to hide, or just to brace themselves before the invaders take the castle.

“They’re outside,”

“But there’s nothing here,” said Bea from behind a blanket. “Everyone had left,”

“They’ll kill us!” little Tim cried. 

 _Death is not so bad,_ she thought, tired.

_BOOM. BOOM._

They were battering the gates.

_BOOM._

Her heart leaped to her throat as she sunk between little Tim and Bea, startled at every collision.

_BOOM._

How long the gates hold, she did not know. 

It seemed strong enough, didn’t it? 

_BOOM. BOOM._

How long does it take for men to scale the outer walls?

_BOOM._

They are going to die, like little Tim said. 

_BOOM. BOOM._

The gate was taken down with a loud _BAM!_ which made Bea shrieked and little Tim cried louder. A roar was heard from outside the kitchen, of battle cries followed by confusion. 

Just like Bea said, there was nothing in the castle, other than darkness and silence. 

 

-

 

The invaders scoured the castle; they threw everything to the ground, opening every cabinet, ravaging every chamber, trampling every table. Lord Eldrick had made sure they left nothing. No weapons, no food. Just leave enough to sustain her and her friends until the castle is taken. 

The men were exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. 

There were so many of them she could count on, more than she ever saw in her life. Some of them were obviously the Lords, though she did not know which House. She only knew her Lord’s sigil; a blasting arrow over a green field. Those banners were collected and burned in the yard. The flame bubbled up into the dark sky, making the crows noisy all over again.

New ones were flying by the castle’s towers and by the walls; a grey wolf and a black crowned stag surrounded by fiery flame.

Five big men found them in the kitchen, trembling in fear and she was sure they’d be killed when they were dragged to the castle yard. All food supplies that can be found were secured by the men.

“Three children, Lord Bolton,”

Grim men glowering at them suspiciously. In her tattered clothing, she shivered in the windy night. The man whom they called Lord Bolton looked at them. She realized he has very strange eyes that reminded her of old milk.

“Where are your parents and the rest of the castle’s inhabitants?” His voice was like silk; gentle, flowing easily. 

“They left, m’lord,” said Bea, hugging little Tim tighter. Her shoulders shook. “We don’t have parents anymore. We work in the kitchen. Fat Gorge didn’t want to bring us when they go,”

“And when did they leave?”

“A fortnight ago, m’lord,”

“Ah,” Lord Bolton nodded slowly. “What is your name, child?”

“Bea,”

“Bea,” he repeated, the weird eyes scanning Bea’s face, making her squirm.

“This is little Tim. And this is Ida,” Bea offered weakly, pointing to her and little Tim.

Upon hearing her name, Lord Bolton’s gaze shifted. She felt her spine go cold and she hurriedly lowered her head, afraid to meet his out-of-wordly eyes. Lord Bolton’s face was smooth and pale, unlike Fat Gorge the cook whose face was covered in smallpox scars. Yet both of them send the same terrible signal.

“We found a well near the kitchen, my lord!” a man-at-arm came to them. On his hands was a bowl of fresh water taken from the well. 

Lord Bolton sniffed at the bowl, making a swirl motion the way she saw Lord Eldrick did to his goblet, before giving it to little Tim.

“Drink it,”

Little Tim’s whole body trembled in fear. When he took the bowl from Lord Bolton, some of the water spilled to the ground. He took one gulp of the water. For a long time that felt like eternity Lord Bolton and his men watched little Tim closely, as if hoping him to drop dead at any given moment. He didn’t, and Lord Bolton ordered the guard to bring little Tim to the kitchen.

“When he got sick, let me know at once. Until tomorrow morning, no one take a sip from the well, no matter how thirsty you become. Understood?”

“Aye, my lord!”

Men lay in all corners of the castle, with the lords quickly occupying empty chambers. The wounded groaned loudly from their resting place, others just sat and stared blankly into the dark. Most of them fell asleep at midnight, claimed by fatigue. 

But not Lord Bolton.

He set the three of them aside again, asking them about the castle.

_How long have they been living in the castle?_

_What kind of tasks do they do around?_

_How many men Lord Sarsfield had?_

_Where did he go?_

_Did they see Tywin Lannister?_

Nearly dawn, a group of riders came into the castle. 

“Open the gates!” a man roared. “Fetch the maester! The King is injured!”

She was sleepy, tired and cold from standing in the yard answering so many questions. Sometimes she thought the question was a repeated one, just being rephrased, to determine whether they were lying or not. She did not lie, until the final question.

“Is there a way to exit the castle apart from the gate?”

Bea and Little Tim shook their heads, crying.

“A tunnel, perhaps? Ida?”

“No... m’lord, no...”

The smooth face did not show any emotion. “Do you know what will happen if I find that tunnel?”

“But there’s no tunnel, m’lord,”

Lord Bolton rose from the ground, having knelt to look them in the eye.

“Pity,” he scoffed softly. He turned to his men. “Put them to swords,”

“Don’t!”

A man was brought forward, leaning against the biggest and the tallest man she ever saw. He easily supported the injured man with his right hand, while on his left he held a shield with a sigil of roaring giant with broken silver chains. He did like a Giant himself. The injured man on the Giant’s arm wheezed, his face pale as a corpse. She saw an arrow stuck slightly below the pectoral. 

“They’re just children,” 

“Children who could slit our throats in our sleep, Your Grace.” Lord Bolton retaliated. “Better not trusting them.”

 _“Don’t,”_ the man warned again, angry. “Watch them… watch… night and day,”

“If that is your command, Your Grace.” 

“It is!”

Lord Bolton nodded curtly and retreated.

“Where’s the maester’s chamber?” the huge man bellowed, making her jump. “Fetch him!”

“No one in the castle, m’lord,” Bea squeaked, shaking from head to toe. “Just us,”

The Giant started shouting profanities and curses of how Tywin Lannister tricked them. 

The injured man slid to the ground. A spiky crown made of iron sat on his auburn hair, making her wonder if he was the Wolf King the Spider warned her about. He’d need to lay down. Being kept standing up made his heart pump more blood to the wound.

“He needs to lay down,” she dared to say, remembering maester Ioseth’s advice every time a man was accidentally shot by an arrow. Sometimes a green soldier who was just learning archery could shoot his comrades, not the bullseye.

“The child is right,” the injured man says, grinning, “I… I think I’m… going… to... pass out,”

“Show me your Lord’s chamber!”

Bea came forward and they followed her friend into the castle. Another man came to her, this one wore a distinguished armor of black scales, just like a fish. 

“Child,” he said, his white hair stuck to his forehead, traces of blood on his tired face making her take a step backward. “Where’s the maester’s chamber? Bring me there,”

She nodded and led the way to what used to be master Ioseth’s solar.

It was located on the same floor as the Lord’s chamber, when she came to the door it was locked. The man did not hesitate when he produced a mace and started battering the oak door. It took him some time, draining him of any energy left in him, before the door gave in and he successfully broke the lock.

The maester did not have time to bring all his equipment and herbs when they left in hurry from the castle. Even though most of the shelves had been emptied, several bottles and dry plants were still in place.

The man started to check the bottles, only to groan in frustration. Using the mace he broke down maester Ioseth’s desk and wooden crests, looking for something.  

“Do you happen to know where the maester keeps the milk of the poppy?”

She shook her head. 

He smashed the last crest, the contents rolled out when it was overturned; some scrolls, candles, old blanket, and… she heard the man sighed.

“Praise the Seven!” he snatched the jar and ordered her to take him to the injured man.

He was laying down in Lord Eldrick’s bed when they came to the chamber. The Giant did not leave his side, but stood by the bedpost. Someone had made fire blazing in the hearth, it must be Bea. 

“Nothing in here, Blackfish. They let us take an empty castle,” the Giant spoke up. 

She could see how the Fish’s face wrinkled in trouble, but he did not say anything other than thrusting the jar to his friend. 

“Honey, for the wound,” the Fish said, before turning to her. “Child, fetch water and a copper pan,”

She nodded and despite her body was aching from standing in the cold night wind, she found herself running back to the kitchen. Little Tim was sitting on the floor, half-asleep, watched by three men with an X-sigil on their breastplates. She saw many sigils tonight and wondered where they came from. She couldn’t find Bea, but the man who guarded the well helped her draw the water, as soon as she described the Fish’s appearance and of his order. She was too short to reach the winch.

Bea only appeared when she returned to the kitchen, carrying a bucket of water.

“Help me with the pan,” she said.

Together they went back to Lord Eldrick’s chamber, hanging the pan in the hearth to boil the water, while two men conversed by the bed. Lord Bolton joined them shortly. She could hear them arguing about leaving the castle at first light, of returning to their camp, but were afraid the King won’t make it. 

“...at least there’s roof above our heads, and water,”

“Water!” the Giant spat, “That, if the Lannisters didn’t poison the well!”

“That is why I let one of the orphans drink it. We shall see,” said Lord Bolton.

“The King cannot travel far,” the Fish argued. “Our men are exhausted. We have better chance in here,”

“Until when? Tywin Lannister let us take this castle. He trapped us!”

She looked back over her shoulder and caught the Fish in the eye.

“Put more wood in the fire,” he said, “When the water boil bring it here,”

“Aye, m’lord,”

“I don’t trust these orphans,” Lord Bolton said, not bothering to lower his voice.

“What are you gonna do, flay them?” the Giant scoffed.

“Crossed my mind,” he sneered. “If His Grace did not stop me,”

“But he did, so they’re under his protection,” the Fish reminded him.

“A pity. You don't know how easily they’d break when the skin is flayed, bit by bit...” 

There was a groaning sound from the bed, the silhouette of the lying King looked helpless. His armor, the boiled leather and his clothes had been stripped from his flesh, now crumpled on the floor. 

“We need to pull out the arrow,”

“How? We cannot risk infection or doing anything that could make the wound worse,”

“Water’s boiling, m’lord,” she said. 

Carefully Bea and her lifted the pan from the hearth and brought it to the side of the bed. Bea found a clean cloth from Lord Eldrick’s drawer and put it near the pan. They waited for the water to cool down before the Giant sniffed the water suspiciously. When she peered closer, she saw the arrow’s shaft had been broken, leaving only inches from the wound surface.

“Your Grace,” the Fish called to the man on the bed, “We will need to clean your wound,”

He gestured to her to move closer to the bed. Now that she was in range, she noticed the King begin to sweat excessively even though the air was not hot. 

“I don’t trust the water,” Lord Bolton said in his silky voice.

“Me neither,” the Giant chimed in, wary. 

“The water is not poisoned, m’lord. We’ve drink it since we were left here,” she found her voice, surprising Bea for speaking up.

Three men looked at her with mixed expressions. She thought how painful it is to be flayed, when a soft chuckle was heard from the bed. The Wolf King tried to raise his head from the pillow but the pain the arrow caused prevented him to do so. He sank back to the bed, breathing hard.

“Just clean it. Let us hope that I don’t die tonight,”

“You must not die, lots of people forbade it,” 

The Wolf King smiled through a facade of pain, “I will try, Uncle,”

She helped to clean his wound, washing away dirt and soil as much as possible. 

After it was cleansed, honey was smeared to reduce inflammation. The skin where the arrow pierced him began to turn red. She did not need to look at the three men to know what it meant, only hope that the wound did not fester. If it did, the Wolf King will surely die.

“You need to get this arrow off me. I can’t do anything with this thing inside me.”

“We dare not risk you bleeding to death. I’ve seen men die once the arrow is pulled out. Not without a maester or healer!”

“We could cauterize the wound…” the Giant muttered. 

“Aye, we could. But we don’t know how deep the wound is!”

“So we let our King suffer? Have you lost your wits, Blackfish?” 

“I’m going to die, either way,” the Wolf interjected. “We can’t stay long in here… we’ve to move. Any words from Lady Brienne?” the Wolf looked expectantly at his men but they shook their heads. His face fell. “We need to head back. We must—,” his speech was cut short when he tried to get up from where he lay, accidentally putting pressure in where he was struck. He groaned, cursing.

 

\--

 

Weak horses were butchered and the flesh distributed among hungry men. There were not many, only a few, and quickly the horse meat ran out. They had to turn to other sources of meat. There were rats and cats, of course, plenty of them. And there were crows, too, so there’d be plenty of meat for some time. Cats do taste like a rabbit, it was just more chewy. Crows were just the worst; the flesh was dry and the texture was bad. It melted like ash in her mouth. 

It was the second night the invaders took the castle. With food gone fast (not that it was left much in the first place, almost none), half of the wounded succumbed to their wounds. Lucky ones died in their sleep, curling in the cold around the castle. Their bodies were burned beside the kennel as the men were too weak to dig graves. 

She ducked her head and ran stealthily whenever she had to come close to them, those invaders. But she had named some of them. At least the ones who she saw from time to time. 

First there was the Wolf King; he was put in her Lord’s chamber, the biggest solar in the castle located high above the Great Hall, in the Lord’s tower. Bea and herself took turns keeping watch by his bed, routinely applying honey to where the arrow hit. She was ordered to keep the fire burning so the Wolf King would at least feel a little comfortable. 

 _But he won’t,_ she thought to herself. _He’d only feel so, if the arrow in him was removed and he was no longer in pain._

Second, there was the Giant who often wandered the castle, bellowing orders and grunting uncomfortably. He wields the biggest sword she has ever seen. The Giant is often to be found by the Wolf’s side, making her nervous by his unfriendly glare, along with the third man she called the Fish. And then there’s Lord Bolton, with his X-sign sigil displayed proudly on his gorget. When she had the chance to look closely, she recognized it was in the shape of a flayed man, hanging upside down. The man frightened her the most. When little Tim did not die from drinking the water, and it was proven that the well was not poisoned, Lord Bolton seemed disappointed.

He and the Fish sat her down and asked about the castle. It was Bea who had been in the castle the longest, and they both showed Lord Bolton and the Fish various passageways and narrow lanes within the castle.

Men were scattered in the yard, in the garden, in the hallway... they shifted to give them a way as they passed. Not much was left in the castle. The invaders were forced to use whatever was available to survive. No matter how she told Lord Bolton there’s no other way to leave the castle but from the front Gate, he did not seem to believe her. Those weird eyes the color of spoiled milk lingered at her more than on Bea or Little Tim. She was certain the man could read her mind just by looking.

She stood next to the Wolf’s bed, listening silently to his weak but steady breathing as she always did when the Giant entered. 

This time he brought an apple, which must be taken from the apple tree growing in the garden.

“Give it to Ida,” said the Wolf. 

“I prefer to see my King eats,”

“I can’t chew. This goddamn arrow forbids me. And if I could, I’ll eat what my men eat,” he said with finality in his voice. “If they had to eat worms, then I shall.” The Giant seemed annoyed and ready to oppose when the Wolf spoke again, weaker. “Fetch me parchment and ink. Tell my great-uncle Brynden, I need him… and Lord Bolton... ser Donnel Swann of Stonehelm… every lords and high borns from the North, the Riverlands and Stormlands,”

She rushed to fetch the parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink from Lord Eldrick’s desk while the Giant bellowed order to a guard in front of the door. Heavy footsteps were heard not long after, and men cramped inside the chamber. They were looking haggard now, tired and hungry.

The Wolf motioned the parchment to the Fish, who took the quill and dipped it in the ink bottle. 

“I need you to bear witness,” said the Wolf, his face did not hide the pain he must felt, “That if I die, I name my brother Brandon... as my heir,” His bannermen’s faces were unreadable—the arrowhead was buried in his lower chest, no one dare to take it out. The Wolf King was not getting any better. The sound that was heard in the chamber was the scraping of the quill over the parchment, the crackling from the hearth, and the Wolf King’s weakened breathing. 

“Myrcella Baratheon shall be returned safely to her close kin. The North will support Stannis Baratheon’s claim of… of the Iron Throne… as long as the North and Riverland’s independence… granted…”

“And the Kingslayer, Your Grace?”

“I entrusted his captivity onto Stannis. My sisters—Sansa... and Arya, if Harwin found her—take them back to Winterfell. Shall Brandon die without issue, it will fall upon Rickon as his heir. Then to Sansa, and to Arya… but... only as long as they are in Winterfell,” he paused for a moment, sighing, “Shall my brothers perished, and God forbid, my sisters are not found nor cannot be taken back to Winterfell... find Jon Snow in the Wall. I named him my heir after my trueborn brothers. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell..._ Jon is half a Stark, my brother,”

The Fish finished scribbling and the Wolf King nodded his consent after reading the written form of his will.

“Fix your seals to bear witness, my lords,”

Perhaps he will die before the sun rises on the morrow. 

She had heard his men debating whether to just pull the arrowhead and cauterized the bleeding, or not. She had stood by the Wolf’s bed, staring at the arrow shaft stuck in his body for hours. There was no blood seeping out, perhaps restrained by the arrow itself… She wasn't sure, but shouldn't every wound bleed? 

Is the absence of blood a good sign?

Perhaps not, but she was just an orphan; what does she know about wounds and death?

 

It was her turn to bring food to the Wolf King. When she came into his chamber again, the Giant was still there, as usual, guarding the Wolf. Sitting by the window ledge was Lord Bolton. Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the tray of food on the table next to the bed.

“What’s this?” the Wolf King asked, examining the roast on the plate.

“Supper. Cat meat,” she answered, wondering for a second if she should call him by a title. 

“Baked with little salt found in the kitchen.” the Giant added. “Should’ve tasted better than horsemeat.”

“Oh. Delicious,” he commented dryly. Both men chuckled, before the Wolf winced at this wound. “How are things outside?” 

“Not good,” the Giant said, suddenly sullen. “Daryn Hornwood died. His death makes the death toll to one fifth of our numbers, half of them are wounded.”

She was surprised to see the Wolf’s eyes glassy. 

“Taste the meat,” Lord Bolton instructed, pulling her away from further thoughts.

“Is that necessary?” the Wolf asked.

“If there’s poison in it, then yes, Your Grace.”

She watched Lord Bolton cut a small bite from the roast and handed the fork to her. She took the bite, chewing dutifully.

“I want to bring Daryn’s bones to his family,” she could hear the pain in the Wolf’s voice even when she was not looking.

Her eyes found the parchment lay near the tray, the Wolf’s will.

Wax with various sigils have been given by his bannermen.

_Brandon. Rickon. Jon Snow. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._

_Winterfell,_ she read that again, carving the names in her head.

“You can read,” Lord Bolton commented, startling her, not angry but rather interested. “Who taught you?”

 _The Spider._ “No, m’lord” she replied, looking at her feet.

“No?”

She was scared. She should have been more cautious to find him in the chamber.

“No, m’lord!” she repeated again.

“Ida, leave us,” the Wolf said to her.

She didn't wait to be told twice before running to the door.

The sun began to set in the western horizon, dark shadows creeping around the castle. She watched silently until the men retired before slipping out from the castle, though it was difficult now that she sensed the invaders were on high alert all the time. 

Running barefoot to the eastern side of the castle, there was an old bath house used by servants and lower ranks of knights. The bath house also served to laundry the castle inhabitants’ clothes. Fat Gorge planted a plot of land in front of the bath house with vegetables and corn. Lord Eldrick let the plants die when he abandoned the castle. Now those tall, dry stalks rustled eerily by the wind. She jumped into the sea of dead corn stalks that easily concealed her from peering eyes. She was not a tall kid to begin with, so it was easy for her to be swallowed among the stalks. 

Her ears were listening to any sound of people that might follow her, though she heard nothing but the wind. The damp soil and the rustling of dry stalks muffled her footsteps as she ran towards the bath house.

The grey stones overgrown with moss soon welcomed her, its iron door was rusty and left ajar. The invaders had checked the bath house twice and found nothing.

Before she entered she looked over her shoulder, to her right and to her left, just to make sure no one followed her. 

The floor inside was damp, the air humid and cold. She slipped while groping in the dark, trying to advance herself towards the end of the room where a long stone basin for washing clothes was located. She did not dare to bring any torch, afraid of being caught. There was a well inside the bath house, she remembered, to draw water from beneath the hill the castle was built on.

Once she passed that well, she reached the stone basin and squatted to feel the floor until she found what she was looking for. The drainage was less than a meter wide, covered with iron trellises which she easily lifted. It revealed more darkness below; rancid odor and moss filled her nostrils when she lowered herself into the sewerage.

The sewerage was an old, mossy tunnel-like water outlet leading to the hill not far from the castle. Her thin body could move freely in the narrow alleyways. Some time had passed since the last time the bath house was used, so it was dry in the sewerage. In the middle of the way, soil erosion made half of the width buried under soil and rocks. It was narrow, small and stuffy, and could not be passed by average adult. Inside the sewerage she could not see a thing. She could only move forward by crawling, chest flat on the floor, both feet pressed to the ground to push her skinny body forward. Her elbows rubbed against the rough stone wall as she pushed herself to move.

It didn’t take long for her to reach the end of the sewerage, to a hidden hole reinforced with another trellis lid. She lifted the lid and crawled out, eyes blinded by the descending sun behind a hill.

Once her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, she ran into the forest and whistled, mimicking a Malabar’s birdcall. At first she heard nothing from the forest, and kept on whistling, until a small face emerged from a bush. A boy of little Tim’s age. 

The boy took a step towards her, whistling the same Malabar song. Even when she never saw him before, the bird’s whistle made her feel close to him. That was a brotherhood song taught by the Spider, a secret way to communicate among his little birds.

“The plan worked,” she said.

 _Say it clearly,_ the Spider also taught them. _Make it easy to remember, to be passed over..._

“The Wolf was hit by arrow to the chest,”

The boy nodded.

“They make a will. Brandon, his heir,” her brow furrowed trying to remember the names. “And Rickon. Jon Snow at the Wall. Brothers before sisters, only if the sisters in Winterfell.”

He nodded.

“Is the Spider coming?” she asked. 

The boy frowned at her, as if her question offended him.

“Burn the highest tower when the Wolf died,” he said. “They’ll come,”

She nodded, watching the boy disappearing into the dark as fast as he came.

“Who’ll come?” suddenly she was intrigued, but it was too late. The boy had long gone.

A part of her wanted to run after him, to leave the crowded castle behind, to leave Fat Gorge and his painful stick between his legs if he ever comes back, and to escape from Lord Bolton’s weird eyes. 

She was already taking two steps forward when she remembered Bea and little Tim. She knew she couldn’t just leave her two friends behind. 

She looked around the opening, making sure she was alone. She picked up some berries to ease the pain in her growling stomach. As she ate, she remembered the apple that the Giant brought, half-heartedly given to her by the Wolf’s order. She had given the apple to little Tim. No one but the Spider ever gave her anything. 

 

She was helping Bea drawing buckets of water from the well in front of the kitchen, when a blasting sound was blown. Her head jerked up to hear it, she _knew_ the signal; it was her Lord’s. 

Bea glanced at her. Boisterous noises could be heard from the yard as the whole castle was woken up by the horn. 

She ran as fast as her bare feet could carry her across the castle grounds, passing through a sea of men struggling to get up from where they lay. Little Tim was already at the barbican wall. She climbed to join him looking fifty feet below, to a massive host of army that were coming closer to her Lord’s castle. 

She thought it was the invader’s men, until a sigil of blasting arrow over a green field among the waving banners caught her eye.

However, they stopped even before reaching the gates. Not even close.

“What are they doing?” Little Tim whispered.

“They stopped,” Bea’s eyes widened. “Aren’t they taking back this castle?”

“No,” she said, observing those men begin digging trenches. “They’re besieging us.”

From such a distance, she could hear the faint noise of laughter, carried by the wind. It was too late now for the invaders to leave the castle.

 

“...will starve us, or we’ll surrender first and open the gates!” a lord shouted as she pushed the door open, heads turned at her as a log of wood fell from the stack in her arms.

“We’ll fight them, or we’ll die trying. We won’t surrender to tyrants.”

“The host in front of the gates outnumbered us,” another lord hissed. “Our men are wounded. Exhausted. Hungry!”

“My lords,” the Wolf called out, cold as midnight breeze, “You're lucky this arrow is still in my body. If not, I've already stuck it in your heart. Get your men up. Put the wounded in the rear. Lord Bolton, can I trust you to lead these men?”

Lord Bolton looked pleased, while other lords were scowling.

She watched the lords shuffled about in the chamber, the commotion of men taking up arms awaken in the castle. Orders were given, and soon she was left in the chamber with the Wolf and the Fish.

“Ida,” the Wolf called.

She looked up from the hearth, to the Wolf on the bed.

“Can you look in my clothes and find my belt, there’s a blade tied to it.”

She easily found what he asked for.

“I heard you’re an orphan?”

She nodded and put the sheathed dagger on his outstretched palm.

“When they charged into the castle, do you have a place to hide?”

She nods her head, “The kitchen,”

He tried to smile through a weak sigh. “Not good enough.”

 _Burn the highest tower when the Wolf died,_ she recalled what the boy had instructed. That was why her Lord’s army came back, to wait until the Wolf was dead. 

“I’m going to die. I could feel it,” he said, sighing. 

“If anyone has to die it should be me. Look at me. I’m old, why am I still here?” the Fish gave the Wolf a sad smile. “We’ll pull that arrow out of you tonight, don’t die. We’ll fight together again,”

“The southron lords wavered,” the Wolf pointed out.

“Aye,”

“If I died—,”

“You’re not going to die!”

 _“If I died,”_ The Wolf pressed on, “You’ll keep Myrcella Baratheon safe, until she is returned to her kin. I cannot trust this to others but you and your honor, Uncle.”

The Fish grimly nodded.

“Do you know, Uncle…” the Wolf continued, looking intently at his dagger, a slender blade adorned with intricate design and carved oak handle. “Once upon a time I told someone that I’ll not die, not before justice is served… and...” he hesitated and let the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Then he handed the dagger to the Fish, who took it. 

The Fish looked uncomfortable. “Do I want to hear the rest of your sentence? Did it come out of your delirious mind?”

“I just wish I won’t be dead soon,”

She watched the Fish dipped the blade into a bowl of boiling water, just as the door opened to show little Tim holding a bowl of salt. Behind him was the Giant and some men. They were preparing to pull the arrow out of him. Time has passed too long; the arrowhead must be removed.

“M’lord, are you really going to die?” she received glares from the Fish for the question, but the Wolf smiled.

“Every man dies, Ida,” the Wolf answered. “It’s just about when, and how.”

 

\---

 

_Burn..._

_Burn the highest tower..._

She smuggled barks and twigs and hay, filling her pockets with dry leaves and moss. 

_Burn the highest tower when the Wolf died..._

She was out of breath after three times going up and down the tower, scattering enough tinder to light the fire. The windows were long broken, the woods already decaying on the wooden floor. Lord Eldrick once said that he wanted to remodel the tower, but somehow never did.

The fourth time she climbed into the tower, she had to drop the twigs from her arms at the top of the stairs, short of breath. Her legs ached. She had left the Wolf King’s chamber as they prepared to pull the arrowhead. Men around the castle were busy moving the wounded to the back of the castle, others were muttering about their dying king.

_Burn the highest tower when the Wolf died._

She huffed as she picked up the fallen twigs and pushed the door open. For the second time, the twigs fell from her arms.

Lord Bolton and three men-at-arms stood inside.

“Hello, Ida,” he said, a glint of amusement emanated from those weird eyes. “You’ve been busy,”

In no time the three men surrounded her, one of whom pushed her to the floor.

She fell and hit the branches and barks scattered on the floor, hearing the rustle of their chainmails and boots. 

“Do you want to tell me what you have been doing?”

She was too scared to speak a word.

“I told my men to keep an eye on you and your friends. They said you’ve been busy, child. Running. Disappearing. Whispering,” his tone dropped a little and her heart was beating so loud she almost couldn’t hear what Lord Bolton was saying. “Now, do you want to tell me about it?” His face unreadable as he squatted in front of her. “No?”

At close range, Lord Bolton’s fair smooth face was almost solemn. He has an odd aura about him, the stillness of bated breath, the distant but lingering gaze… when he took her hand in his, she could feel the smoothness of his palm. 

“Do you know what is the word of my House?”

“No, m’lord...”

_“Our blades are sharp,”_

Before she could say a word, he slammed her hand to the floor and with renowned strength held it in place. Two men came behind her, shoving her face down on the wooden floor. One held her other hand, while the other gripped her shoulders so hard it made her unable to move. She felt a weight was placed on her back to keep her laying still on her stomach.

And indeed, the blade Lord Bolton took out from his cloak was sharp. Shaped like no other blades she had ever seen, it prick on her skin like cold water in the morning as he calmly slashed the back of her hand. It was a shallow cut to open the skin. 

“Tell me, Ida, where did you go this evening?”

She fought the tears dwelling in her eyes, “Nowhere, m’lord, just in the kitchen!”

Through the wound he moved the blades inward, but not deep enough, only to the area between her skin and her muscle. The world became hazy as she heard herself screamed. The pain was unspeakable; the grip on her shoulders and her hands grew tighter as she fought the pain.

“Skinning requires an even hand,” Lord Bolton’s soft voice cuts through her screaming, explaining to her patiently as if they were flaying a deer. “One has to make careful cuts to avoid damaging the skin. If you ever peel an apple, that is the best way to do it… I will ask you again. Where did you go, Ida?”

“The hill! The hill on the east side of the castle!”

“How did you do that?”

When she refused to answer, the blade began to move… slowly, just underneath her skin like Lord Bolton had explained. Pain washed over her three times fold when the blade forcefully separated the flesh from the skin, scorching like fire. She screamed and cried and begged, only for Lord Bolton to ask the question all over again in his odd calmness.

“From the sewer in the bath house! Please! Please!”

The blade stopped moving and she shivered violently, crying and wetting her clothes.

“Whom did you meet?”

She was so afraid he would move the blade again; the back of her hand that Lord Bolton skinned was bathed in blood. She felt close to losing consciousness due to the pain. 

“Tell me, whom did you meet?” 

She couldn’t stop crying and shaking.

“What did they tell you?”

“To… to… burn… the highest tower… when... when the Wolf died,”

Lord Bolton was silent, digesting the information she had just relayed. He took a few strands of hay from her pocket, those weird-eyes of his combing through the room filled with dry twigs and tinder. 

Slowly, he rose and walked to the ledge of a broken window to peek at a host waiting outside the castle. His voice was still calm when he spoke.

“Is there any other way out of the castle?”

“Just the bath house,” she was not lying this time.

A man was sent to check. When he got back, the sewerage was too small to be passed by an adult. 

Lord Bolton wiped his blade from the blood, chuckling slightly at her, “Clever. Cut off the serpent’s head, then the body dies. Your lord thinks we will be easily destroyed just then,” he said.

She curled up on the wooden floor, wet with tears, blood, and her piss, hugging her hand to her chest. The skin Lord Bolton had flayed was dangling painfully from the flesh. 

“What do we do now, my lord?”

“Rouse and prepare the men to fight. Tell the King and other Lords to be ready, as soon as smoke rises into the sky, the gates will be opened. Cavalry in the vanguard to lead the charge.”

The man ran to do what he was bid.

“There are too many of them, my lord,” another man spoke.

“I know, Locke, but we have the advantage. When they think they’ll face a broken enemy ready to surrender, instead when the gates are opened they’ll get northern hospitality. One thing I agreed with the Young Wolf is to strike while the iron is hot. While the southron lords cowered, but not the north,”

She rolled from where she sat, hitting the floor with a _thud_. Lord Bolton looked at her as if he just remembered she was still there.

“End her suffering,”

A blade was drawn and the sharpened edge sank into her belly, followed by something spurting out when the man pulled the blade from her. She could no longer scream. 

 _Well, death is not so bad,_ she thought, lying in the pool of her urine and blood. 

“We’re ready, Lord Bolton,”

“Good. Do as the orphan said,” she heard Lord Bolton said. “Burn the tower,”

Fire quickly grabbed the hay scattered around the tower. Moss and wood from a broken window ledge easily igniting the fire into a bigger flame, sending black smoke to her nostrils. She tried to cough, but choked on her own saliva and blood. She couldn’t breathe. Her body was warm and wet, heavy, the heart accelerated.

“Locke, find the rest of the orphans. Don’t make a mess nor a noise,”

 _Bea, Little Tim..._ she tried to call her friends, but no sound came out.

She coughed again, inhaling smoke and dust. Flames spread to the roof, raining her with embers. The thick, black smoke made it hard to stay awake. She thought about the Spider’s soft hands when he handed her the sweets, of the juicy peach he let her tasted.

She will miss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone will like the way I wrote battle scenes/strategies, and that's okay. I'm not GRRM and I'm most def not Miguel Sapochnik or Peter Jackson. English is not my native, and I apologies in advance for any misspelling or grammatical errors. I'm back to full time job now, and between other obligations I'm afraid updates will take longer than before. I've written up until the epilogue though sporadically and when the muse hits (still need to fill holes here and there).
> 
> Please know that I truly appreciate your readership. Your kind kudos and comments are always welcome; cannot thank you enough for being so supportive since I start writing this fic for my therapy. Also, I've taken you nearly half of the fic, please heeds tags and archive warnings and author's disclaimer in Chap1 (which I'm sure you all did, but I want to make sure I'm not breaking hearts here as when I started a fic I already knew which directions I'm going to take).
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH and seven blessings! X


	22. Chapter 22

**BRIENNE**

A flock of crows was screaming from a dead tree, puffing their dark wings while watching her with interest. 

 _Dead meat walking,_ Brienne guessed. _Meat, meat, meat._

Night was falling when she continued forward, the horse appeared calm despite the noisy crowing. As a sign of gratitude, Brienne stroked its mane fondly. Nearing the edge of the woods she stepped down from the horse to continue on foot. 

 _“We’ve got only one chance to make the biggest fire the Westerlands has ever seen,”_ Galbart’s voice haunts her as she advances silently, stealthily, into a clearing. 

They had taken all the remaining oil and combustible material, dividing it between fifteen people. Each of them moved to form a crescent perimeter behind the host besieging Sarsfield, spilling oil and spreading twigs and tinder. The rustling leaves make her stay alert, the crowing crows camouflages any sound she might make.

When she stood petrified, every sense in her body was scanning the surroundings for any movements… Thankfully, there was none. 

She could hear the faint commotion from the besieging camp; the smell of stew and cheese made her stomach rumble. The crows were watching her intently.

 _“Let us hope our friends see what is happening and come out to fight,”_ Galbart said. _“Let us hope they are not dead, yet,”_

Finishing her task with the tinder, Brienne crept back to where she left her horse. 

She was among the last ones who got back to where Galbart was waiting, reporting that fire is good to go.

Galbart nodded. A brief of silence Brienne recognized as the moment where men were praying to their Gods before an impending battle. They took positions behind the kindling. There were only two banners in the camp in front of them; a roaring golden lion and a blasting arrow over a green field. Lannisters and Sarsfield.

“Prepare to take her to Riverrun,” Brienne told Walton and Pia. She had spare a dozen men mounted on horses to do the bidding. “Don’t wait until the battle is lost,”

“Yes, milady,” Pia nodded. Walton grinds his jaw, a gesture of displeasure, but nodded all the same.

Brienne’s eyes fell to Robb’s direwolf; the beast growled softly looking at the castle, its front legs scratching the ground impatiently. 

 _He wants to go to his master,_ Brienne thought.

“Look!”

A man pointed to the castle’s highest tower; from all the way across the distance, fire lights like bonfires casting yellow and orange glow to the dark sky. 

“What in seven hells?” Clifford Swann cursed.

They could hear the roar and massive cheer from their opponent’s camp. Grey Wind bared its teeth to hear the noise. 

“Is something happening?” 

“We must stay calm, my lords,” Brienne advised, though she was at loss upon seeing the fire. 

In front of them the men woke to take swords and shields as if preparing to storm the castle. Men saddling their horses, squires running to hand swords and shields.

“They’re preparing to fight,” Galbart said, incredulous. “Did they hear us?”

“No, my lord,” Brienne said, for that she was sure. “Something else is happening…”

Grey Wind started to growl, the fur bristling. For a moment she pondered what to do to the direwolf. It only obeyed Robb. There seemed to be a strong bond between the King in the North and his direwolf; sometimes Brienne sensed they were communicating. She was in doubt now. Should she tell Grey Wind to go with them to free Sarsfield? Or should she let the direwolf follow Myrcella to Riverrun? Does the direwolf understand if Brienne speaks to it?

“Grey,” she called, hesitating. 

The direwolf’s golden eyes found hers and she was struck at how intelligently it stared back at her.. Before she could say a word, Grey Wind stood straight and howled. 

“The direwolf will give away our position!” Galbart hissed.

“No!” Brienne turned to the older man, “It signaled to attack. Light the fire!”

“You hear the lady!” Galbart bellowed to his squire, who hurried off to the kindling with a flint. Before any spark could be produced, Grey Wind leaped and disappeared into the dark. 

“Where is it going?” Benfred asked.

“To your King,” Brienne answered. She turned to Myrcella, “You must go now.”

“I will not go to Riverrun,” Myrcella said stubbornly. “I will wait for the aftermath here. Whatever happens.”

No time for Brienne to argue. Soon the flame swooped down the entire kindling. Even before the flames cut through the darkness of the night, Brienne had heard panicked cries from their opponent’s camp. The sound of horses kicking the ground in fear, the screams of trampled men, accompanied by Grey Wind’s chilling howls. 

The line that began to form in front of them was now shattered before it could double its strength.

 _“The wolf is here!”_  

The fire spread as fast as lighting, burning all the twigs and dry leaves. Oil accelerated the already angry flames, making it soar into the dark sky. Shouts were heard louder from the camp.

A balding man in his rune armor rode beside them, his squire blew a horn. The sky-blue falcon fluttered side by side with other sigils in the dark sky. 

“Knights of the Vale!” he roared. Hundreds of mounted men behind him cheered. “For more than a thousand years the Vale has sworn allegiance to house Arryn! The Iron Throne has erased its rightful Warden of the East, sacrificing us to defend the murderer of your liege Lord! No withdrawal, no time for cowardice! Us knights of the Vale know none of it. Each of you swore allegiance to your liege Lord, and when you rode west with me! Your enemy is before you now. Forward!” His men raise the swords in their hands into the air as they charge.

“Let’s go get our King,” said Galbart, turning to Brienne and grinned.

Their horses were driven at full force through the fire fence and broke into the enemy’s  camp. Brienne ran her sword left and right, trampling men on her way to the castle. The enemy line had moved towards the castle gates, the ones in the rear turned only to see Brienne ‘s sword coming down at them. 

The enemy front had reached the castle, when the gates were swung open from the inside.

Another horn was blown; a cavalry rode out bearing two banners at the front, a grey direwolf and a crowned black stag surrounded by fiery flames. Greatjon Umber rode his stallion like a madman, leading the northern cavalry. He ran over anyone in his path without mercy, the tip of his ugly sword red with blood. 

The enemy’s forces began to fall apart due to incoming assault from two directions. Their generals were shouting from their horses, but arrows silenced them forever. 

No one could trace Grey Wind’s movements; the direwolf was too fast for naked eyes to see, and before the enemy knew it Grey Wind attacked from their blind spots, sending their mounts into frenzy. Some of them, the green ones, were trying to run away into the woods but fire forbade them to escape fate. If it was not fire that roasted them in their armors, it was the men Brienne and Galbart left to wait by the edge of the woods that finished the job.

Her horse trampled the scattered tents, the sword in her hand as red as Greatjon Umber’s.

Her horse ran up to a man screaming upon seeing the Stark banner riding out from the castle. “But he’s supposed to be dead!” was his last words before Brienne’s sword descended to his head, separating it from the shoulder. His widened eyes stare at her blankly in his death. A shadow of grey leaped besides her horse to run towards the castle. 

Even in the dark she could not possibly not recognize the man sitting on his black destrier. 

Grey Wind welcomed his master. Once the beast was by his master’s side and howling into the night sky, the hair on Brienne’s neck stood. On Robb’s right was Brynden Tully, and on his left was Lord Bolton. 

“Don’t let anyone escape,” Brienne heard the Young Wolf ordered his lieutenants, “They’re going to kill us. Put them all to swords, even the lords and noble births. We take no prisoners. But leave the green ones, they are to be sent to the Wall.”

A faint smile came upon Roose Bolton’s face as riders after riders kept coming out from inside the castle. The cold wind carries the smell of blood. By the time the morning sun began to illuminate their battlefield, bodies of the dead scattered for the crows to feast, hundreds of tents flattened to the ground. 

Survivors were rounded near the bank of a river by the hill, battered and shaking. Most of them were young enough to be called boys and not grown men. Lord Bolton was last seen riding towards their prisoners, and Brienne could only guess what would happen to them. She had heard of his plan to give them a Bolton reminder before sending them to the Wall before the sun is high.

She turned the rein to trot back to Robb, letting the Lord of Dreadfort do his part.

When she came to the Young Wolf, Grey Wind was still by his side. Robb seated on his horse, his breath wheezing and the face pale as a mare’s milk. He wore his usual surcoat atop the armor, huddling beneath the fur. 

The balding man and his host were standing with their backs on her, but she heard their conversation as she came near.

“...regards from Lysa Arryn, the Lady Warden of the East,” 

“Her envoy is most welcome, my lord,” came Robb’s answer, and Brienne noted the weak voice he muttered instead of his usual warm and confident accent. 

“How many of you, my lord?” Greatjon asked, narrowing his eyes to the host before him.

“One thousand mounted knights,” Roybar Royce answered. “Lady Arryn wants to convey this letter to you, Your Grace.” a sealed letter was pulled out from his hip, the same letter bearing Arryn’s falcon and crescent moon seal that Lord Royce showed to them in the woods.

Blackfish took the letter. Robb’s eyes found Brienne and he called her to come closer.

“Lord Glover said we lost our camp,” Robb said.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Where is she?”

Brienne knew who he meant. “In the woods.”

“Fetch her, if you please, lady Brienne. Bring her to me at once.”

The fur was bristled but not by the wind. The Young Wolf was shaking beneath it. His breath came in ragged and shallow gasps. Brienne had seen enough death to know that the Young Wolf had suffered a pretty bad injury, and it was not from this battle. She did not see him riding to meet the enemy like his usual manner.

“Right away, Your Grace,” she answered, bowing her head. As she turned her horse around, she heard Blackfish urging Robb to get back into the castle. 

 

Bodies were thrown into the fire that still aflame in the edge of the woods. Crows flying low, crawing as they flapped their wings noisily. The sound of cries was heard from the river, but a shallow hill covered whomever was there from sight. She heard the heart-wrenching begs and the screaming… Each and every one of those will gladly be taken to the Wall after the ordeal has finished. More broken men to fight and die against the wildlings.

By the time they entered the castle, the fire in the highest tower was almost extinguished, leaving a black tower soaring into the sky.

“Lady Brienne!” Greatjon Umber greeted her at the yard. They exchanged a brief handshake, rattling their gauntlets in a comfortable _clank_. 

“My lord! I am glad you are unscarthed.”

“And you, my lady! I think the Gods are on our side. What a time to show the power of the north to those southerners!” Then he remembered where she came from, before quickly adding, “I mean, those Sarsfields and Lannisters!”

Greatjon’s eyes wandered to Myrcella behind her and she saw how his face wrinkled in annoyance. 

“The King asked for her,” Brienne told him.

Greatjon scoffed, but gestured to them to follow him nonetheless. She was tempted to ask the casualties they suffered, and to relay information of the camp as soon as she could, but knew it had to wait. 

“What happened, Lady Brienne?” Myrcella whispered.

“The King is not in a good shape.” she answered.

“What do you mean, _not in a good shape?”_

“You’ll see soon enough.”

They walk side by side along the hallway, passing men scattered about. The knights of the Vale were flocking by the barbican walls, taking sentries. Brienne found Blackfish in the great hall, who joined them towards the Lord’s chamber. 

“Really stubborn, eh, Lady Brienne?” Blackfish casually opened the conversation as they walked. “Once he knew they’d attack when he died, he insisted on appearing in front of his men and led the assault. Even when he was hit, Greatjon told me he wouldn’t leave the battlefield before ensuring that his men were safe. Without his courage, we might have been divided.”

Brienne glanced at Myrcella.

“What happened, my lord? If you will kindly tell me,” the girl asked, clearly confused.

Blackfish stopped on his track to look at the Princess. He sighed. “The King was hit. An arrow to his pectoral, Princess. We’re going to pull the arrowhead when Lord Bolton found out about the incoming attack. When the King heard it he decided to fight on, postponing the treatment.” Seeing Myrcella’s face he continued, “And no, Princess, no maester here. I didn’t see any healers among your group and those from the Vale too,”

“They died in the attack and burning of our camp, my lord,” Brienne said.

They resumed walking until reaching the furthest end of the hallway. Half a dozen men-at-arms stood guard by the door, nodding at Blackfish and Greatjon before holding the door open. They were all northern men, Brienne noticed. Robb trusted his southern lords but northerners looked after each other.

When the four of them entered the chamber, Brienne could see the Young Wolf had already moved to the bed. Gone were all the ferocity and strength that usually enveloped him. 

“You asked for Princess Myrcella Baratheon, Your Grace?” Blackfish asked.

Robb turned and his eyes found Myrcella. He nodded.

The girl knelt beside his bed. Brienne could not see her face nor hear what she murmured to him but it must have been shock, or fear, because she heard the Young Wolf say, “It’s alright. It’s alright…”

“He’s getting weaker, I’m not sure if he could…” Blackfish didn’t finish his sentence. He rubbed his weary face. “It has been some time since he was hit.”

“Can you not save him?” The princess turned to look over her shoulder.

“We’re afraid the arrowhead is like this,” Blackfish took out something from his pocket. He showed her a metal arrowhead extracted from the leg of one of his men. It was shaped like a fish hook, curved backwards on each side. 

Carefully he put it on Myrcella’s palm, letting the girl observe it.

“I’ve seen my men get their flesh torn out as the arrowhead was pulled. They never walk the same again. Those who got hit in their midsection didn’t survive even when he cauterized the wound. We’re not sure if it hit an organ, breaking his bone, or else. There’s also no milk of the poppy…” he said grimly.

“And we cannot just push it through him, not when the arrow stuck there,” Greatjon added.

“So you let him die?” Myrcella looked at the two men with wide glassy eyes, judging. “Can you not do something? _Anything?”_

“My great-uncle will take you back to your kin,” said Robb. “Everything is set. You’ll be safe. You have my word, and I keep it.”

 _“No,”_ she replied, distraught, but Robb already turned and closed his eyes.

“Take her please, uncle.”

The Princess was crying when Blackfish ushered her from the chamber. Brienne glanced to the bed and saw the Young Wolf looks just as sad. But of his impending death, or something else, Brienne could not fathom.

 

In the afternoon they were assembled in the Lord’s solar again, a spacious chamber now packed with heavily armored men. So crowded that Brienne could not see Robb Stark lying on the bed. His lieutenants reported the aftermath of the battle. Crows were busy flying around the castle to feast on the dead, the bodies they have not buried. 

“...one way in and one way out, this castle is a perfect place to trap an army.” Lord Bolton mumbled, scratching his beardless chin. 

“Food is scarce. We’re left to eat the wounded horses, ones that couldn’t run anymore.” 

“We’re so close to Casterly Rock now to turn back...”

Brienne sat idly on her chair, listening to the lords’ talking. She has not slept in two days and now fatigue almost claimed her. Sitting was not a wise option, so she stood next to Benfred near the hearth.

“Where’s Ida? Are the children safe?” Robb Stark’s voice was heard from the bed. Weaker and softer. 

“Who, Your Grace?” Lord Bolton raised an eyebrow. “Oh. The orphans. We’ve not seen them, Your Grace.”

“Must have slipped out when we opened the gates! With such commotion no one paid attention to those orphans,” ser Donnel scoffed. “Orphans cannot be trusted.”

“When this war is over, there will be many of them. Are you going to send them away? Treating them with suspicion?” Robb rebuked him.

Brienne glanced at the Blackfish just as he lowered his gaze to intently look at his boots. Something he said earlier poked her interest. _How did Roose Bolton know the enemy is going to attack when the Young Wolf is dead?_  

“Did you burn that tower, Lord Bolton?” Brienne suddenly remembered the scorched tower.

Roose Bolton examined her like he was seeing her the first time. 

“Yes,” he said, emotionless.

“May I ask why, my lord?” 

“Is that important?” Greatjon chimed in, “We destroyed them! We won!”

“For now,” Blackfish reminded him. “Still a long way to go, if you ask me.”

Tywin Lannister sacrificed Sarsfield. He let Robb take an empty castle, void of supplies. He had slyly learned Robb’s ploy in the Fork and Whispering Woods, but instead of dividing his forces into two, Tywin must have divided them into three. 

The first group was the one who faced them in battle, led by Tywin’s younger brother Kevan Lannister. The second group, which consisted of his sellswords, seemed to circled the Westerlands through Hornvale to ambush Robb’s camp. Yet those fifty men carried out their mission effectively, burning down every supply to the last grain and livestock. The third and last group with most of his men, was still nowhere to be seen.

“Tell me about the camp, Lady Brienne,” Robb called.

She told them about the sellswords, the casualties, and who survived the sack. There were not many. As ser Patrek’s name was brought up, Roybar Royce of the Vale spoke up for the first time.

“How unfortunate! He has just become the Lord of Seagard!”

“My lord?” Brienne turned to face the older man.

“Aye, the morning we left the Vale ravens came to announce about his father’s death. Ser Patrek is Lord Jason’s only heir, I heard.”

“He could have survived the fall,” A Frey that Brienne did not know his name, said. “Did you say that no body was found?”

“Yes.” Brienne confirmed. 

“So many deaths, so many to lose…”

“If he survives, they must have taken him. Ser Patrek will be a valuable hostage, now that he is the Lord of Seagard. The crown must know it.”

“But Tywin sent sellswords, didn’t he?” Robb mentioned.

“You must rest now,” Blackfish reminded his great-nephew.

Robb Stark did not say another word, too drowned in his sorrow. They left his solar and while standing in the hallway she saw Walton came to her, huffing.

“Pardon, my lady, my lords!” Walton inclined his head, “The girl asked to audience with you, Lady Brienne.”

All eyes fell on her. 

“Why?” asked Greatjon.

“It’s about the King, my lord, but I beg your pardon, she didn’t say anything much.”

“Thank you, Walton, I’ll be there in a moment.” 

When she came to her chamber, Myrcella was sitting in front of the hearth, intently looking at the arrowhead in her hand. Before Brienne could muster a greeting, Myrcella rose from her chair.

“Lady Brienne, forgive me… but I’ve an idea,” the girl said, “I've been thinking about this… arrowhead…” she raised the arrowhead before the hearth. Brienne could see the sharp glint from the barbed edge.

“What about it, Princess?”

“I think I found a way to safely extract it.”

Brienne raised a skeptical brow. “You think?”

“I—I read something in Maester Vyman’s scrolls—when I helped him make new copies of old manuscripts in Riverrun…”

“And did it involve how to treat such a wound?”

Myrcella bit her bottom lip, “Not... quite.”

“Why should I trust you?” a fair question; Myrcella Baratheon was no healer let alone a maester. She was raised a privileged princess, kept inside a Palace her whole life. What if this is some kind of trickery? Brienne doubted it, Myrcella was alone and more than one lord would be happy to run his sword across her neck if it does. 

And…

Brienne _knew_ that look. She used to give her Father the same look; _I am going to do this, whether you’re willing or not._

“Please,” Myrcella said, a whimper almost inaudibly but Brienne heard it just fine. 

“The other lords won’t be so pleased,” Brienne warned.

“I know, my lady,” Myrcella looked her in the eye and Brienne remembered thinking of how green her eyes were, shining of determination. “But I cannot let him die. I have to try. You know I have to...”

“If you fail, the lords could blame you for his death.”

“I know.”

“Is it the risk you’re willing to take?” Brienne asked, marveling in Myrcella’s stubbornness. She did not need to hear Myrcella’s answer, nor see her nod to know. The girl had made up her mind. 

“When you want to help someone, you’ll try everything to save them. Whatever it takes. As long as you can save him, at least you tried. I want to do the same to him, just like you did for my uncle.”

 _I failed Renly,_ she thought. “Robb Stark is not your King.”

“You’ll do the same if it was my uncle. He was the youngest Baratheon after Stannis. Yet you came to him when he wanted the Iron Throne, not Stannis.”

Pia dipped her head to avoid looking at Brienne. A heartbeat passed, neither of them said a word. 

“Fine,” Brienne said softly, breaking the silence. “I’ll take you to him.”

 


End file.
